


Broken Words and Whispered Promises

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "tempting chaos called to him, beckoning him closer, calling out to come get a better look, and like a fool, he listened, letting himself slowly edge nearer, let himself be drawn in close"A reckless move while out on a hunt results in Jaskier getting hurt.Although his wounds initially seem like nothing more than the usual scrapes and bruises, he quickly realises he may have been left with longer damages to deal with.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 87
Kudos: 349





	1. A messy opening

It was an accident.

He knows that, they both know that.

He should have stayed further back, out of the way.

He knows that. He does.

He shouldn’t have let himself be drawn in, by the chaos, feet slowly edging closer, nudging in from his spot on the edge.

A safe spot, out of the way, with a good clean view. He could have stayed there, batting at any stragglers that got too close, the odd half-dead ghoul, not fully cut down by Geralt’s sword.

But instead… tempting chaos called to him, beckoning him closer, calling out to come get a better look.

And like a fool, he listened, letting himself slowly edge nearer, let himself be drawn in close.

Too close.

He was being careful, trying to still be careful…

Then one jumps at Geralt, the Witcher swings it off, clean and easy, tossing it to the side, thrown away.

Directly into Jaskier. 

There’s a crunch, a heavy body collides with his chest, heavy and sharp.

He gasps, feels himself crumble, body folding, collapsing to the ground, heavy weight pinning him down. He chokes, breath knocked from his lungs, struggling to regain it again.

Not that he has long to deal with it, blinking eyes focusing on sharp and pointed teeth, gnashing at his face. His lungs pull themselves together enough to produce a high-pitched shriek, trying to scramble back, get away from this beast. 

His hands scrabble for a weapon, he had a dagger before, a small sharp blade, but he had dropped it in the fall. Heard it go scattering away from him, leaving him with nothing.

A hand curls around a loose rock, raw and bloody fingers pressed tight against the rough stone. 

He swings. Feels a satisfying crunch as it connects with old bones and half rotten flesh.

The creature screams. Loud and pained and ear-splitting. Angry. It digs in its claws, deep and vicious.

He swings again, watches as the rock sinks into flesh, feels the blood splatter out against his cheek.

It screams again, stunned enough not to rip his head off, but shows no sign of releasing him.

He offers a half cut off scream of his own when the claws in his chest sink in deeper.

A swish. A heavy thump, the beast’s head is separated from it’s body, falling to the side with a heavy thud. 

He drags himself free of the weight of the body, drags himself to his feet, only making it halfway as such, half bent over, breath still knocked from his lungs.

He half hears a voice, ringing in his ears, he can’t make out the words, but doesn’t miss the desperation, the tone of concern.

He lifts a hand, tries to wave it off. He’s fine.

He will be fine.

He tries to move. Turn, shift back, somewhere safe, somewhere he can hunker down, curl around himself and try to deal.

He makes it barely two steps before his legs buckle, giving way, finds himself sinking down to the ground. Knees hit hard stone, body shaking. He lets it happen, no chance of stopping it. An arm wraps tight around his chest, curls in on himself, gasping for breath, ribs burning.

He tips forward, a sweaty forehead meeting cold stone, gags, convulsing.

He is aware of muted chaos, occurring seemingly all around him, but finds himself lacking the strength to lift his head and see.

There is sound of a scuffle, shuffling feet only just missing him, heavy boots landing inches from the edges of delicate fingertips.

He curls in further, tucking around himself as much as possible, making him as small, as unnoticeable as he can.

Let him be forgotten, leave him lying there, drowning in his pain.

Leave him to sink into the stones, body lost to the dirt, pain dispersed amongst the earth.

There is a cry from above, something rains down on him, hot and heavy.

It splatters against him, neck painted, wet and warm.

He gasps, gags, shutters at the feeling, at the smell.

A heavy thump, something else hits the ground before him. He still doesn’t look, doesn’t dare lift his head, think of the stress, the pain the movement would bring.

He stays where he is, pretends the world isn’t occurring around him.

Boots appear in the corner of his vision, kicking up dust, shifting, uneasy, uncertain.

A hand comes to rest on his back, hot and heavy, “Jaskier-”

He flinches at the contact. Hand reaching up to bat away the pressing weight.

The weight does not leave, instead offering a comforting pat. The voice comes again, but softer, gentler this time, probing but not demanding, “Jaskier…”

He gags, head feeling dizzy, struggling to piece together a response.

The hand shifts, gentle, sliding to his shoulder, encouraging him to sit up.

He allows it, allows himself to be pushed up into a seated position, head falling heavy against Geralt’s leg, eyes still slid half-shut, lacking the energy to open them up just yet.

“Come on Jaskier,” the hand moves again, strikes his face, he barely registers it to begin with, a numb tapping in his face, “Jaskier!” the next slap stings. Sharp and heavy.

He gasps, eyes falling open, gawking up at Geralt.

The Witcher grunts, brushes the sweaty hair from Jaskier’s face, clearing the messy strands from his eyes.

He sighs at the contact, leaning into the touch, the cool press of Geralt’s hand, comforting and soft.

“Are you okay?”

He swallows, throat feeling red and raw. Tries to muddle together an answer, opens his mouth to deliver it and flinches at the croaking whisper that spills from his throat.

He tries again, no sound managing to pull itself from between his lips.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, face painted in terrifying concern.

He wants to offer comfort. He wants to say that he is okay, but opening his mouth provides nothing more than further silence.

He laughs.

He tries to laugh, he thinks that is what it is supposed to be, the half-choked bubble of sound that erupts out of him. Sick and wet.

Gods, his throat burns, rubbed raw and sensitive.

He laughs again, unable to stop it, the high, desperate sound. Gulps, wonders if there is blood running down the back of his throat, hot and burning.

Geralt’s frown deepens, “Jaskier…”

He offers a shake of the head, that seems like the most he can manage, words refusing to leave his throat.

Geralt growls, tugging him to his feet.

He stands, swaying slightly, feels Geralt’s large hands cupping his face, peeling open tired eyelids, poking and prodding at his flesh.

He snorts, tries to shake off the pressing hands. Geralt ignores his grumbling, desperate concern not allowing for soothing comforts, “are you okay Jaskier?”

He opens his mouth, no longer surprised when nothing comes out. Shrugs, shoulders lifting and dropping, feeling heavy, weighted.

Geralt lets out a growl at that, half cut off, stopped in the throat, not wanting to scare Jaskier.

Geralt swings an arm around him, taking his weight, letting Jaskier fall against him, head heavy, body on the edge of collapse. Lets himself be tugged forward, pushed into moving, slow stumbling steps, heavy and tired.

He groans. He tries to groan, no more than a rough, ghost of a whisper slipping from between his lips. Barely audible, he feels more than hears it. Feels it vibrate through his chest, deep and painful.

Geralt hums in response, murmuring soft comforts into his hair, words too soft to pick out.

He focuses instead on walking, slow stumbling steps over uneven ground.

His ankle rolls, sharp and agonising, presser pressed on squeaking bones, nerves screaming at the movement.

A choked sob of pain bursts from him, a croaking cry, pulled from deep within his chest.

He almost delights at the sound, as rough and pained as it is, it was still noise, actual noise, pulled from between his lips, proving he has not turned completely mute after all.

Geralt shares no such delight, grabbing hold of him tight, lines of fear painted across his face.

He holds up a hand to comfort the Witcher, wave away the fear, mouth opening and closing uselessly once more, no more then a dry croak breathing through to accompany his movements.

Geralt seems as unsurprised at that as he is, offering an annoyed growl in response, tugging him onward.

Geralt gets them out of the remains of the building, into the nearest town, following an uneven, unsafe, road.

He finds himself bundled into a quiet tavern, proving an accidental spectacle for the town’s late-night drunks, blood soaking through his pale white shirt, the stark red drawing curious and questioning eyes.

Concerned townsfolk are left behind the solid tavern room door, cutting them off from the speculating whispers building downstairs.

He strips bloodstained clothes, lets Geralt help him clean off the grime and guts, picking flecks of decayed flesh from his hair.

Soft cloth pressed against cuts and scrapes, soaking up any still oozing blood.

He finds himself sat, heavy and tired on the edge of a bed, a new exhaustion settling into his bones.

Geralt dabs a cloth against his head, clearing the messy smears of blood from his head. He tries to hum at the touch, feeling his sore throat vibrate, yet produce nothing.

He receives a heavy sigh from Geralt, a frown still settled on his face, offering a less than helpful, “… get some rest.”

He sighs at the words, waves at his throat, unsure of even what he wants to communicate other than… helplessness.

Geralt nods in acknowledgement, “I… get some rest… perhaps things will be improved in the morning.”

He huffs. As much as he can. Collapses down with another heavy sigh, knowing there is little else he can do, but finding himself holding little hope that Geralt is correct.

That anything in his life would ever prove so easy.


	2. bad news

The night proves to have healed some wounds, the pain in his bones settled from a sharp pain to something gentler, a soft ache, reminding him of the struggles of the day before.

His throat has settled as well, the burning ache faded to a soft whisper, quiet enough he barely notices it. Until he swallows. Only meaning to clear the taste of stale blood and death from his mouth, nothing more.

Instead…

It burns. Sharp, aching. Awful.

He instinctively swallows again, for all the good it does him. A momentary relief at the cost of further agitation.

He chokes back a sob, throat constricting painfully, clearly not all wounds had healed. He presses a hand against his throat, soft fingers rubbing soothing circles against his skin. It’s hot, skin burning under chilled fingers, he swallows, feeling the muscles move and shift in response.

He opens his mouth, attempting… he doesn’t even know what. A sound, a scream, a whisper… anything. Anything at all, ears straining for the faintest hint of noise… met with an echoing silence.

He huffs, throat managing that if nothing else. Squeezes his eyes shut to hold in tears, suddenly stinging in the corner of his eyes. He tries to gulp down the bubbling fear, suddenly growing in his chest, tries to bite down the overwhelming panic-

He gulps again, ignoring the burn, sucking in air and fighting to bring down his rocketing heart rate.

He’s fine.

He tries to tell himself that, drill it into a panicking brain, he’s fine.

He will be fine.

He has to be.

Beside him Geralt grunts irritably from where he is lain on the other end of the bed, seemingly still mostly asleep. A sudden burning anger overtakes Jaskier at the noise. He thumps the bed between them, hard and sharp. Demanding.

Geralt grunts again, groggily rolling over, clearly still half asleep.

He bangs on the bed again, as angry and loud as he can manage. A new rage filling his veins, pain fuelled anger at his situation. At Geralt.

He whacks the bed once more, inches from Geralt’s head, trying to air his frustrations in the only way he currently can.

His tantrum works.

Geralt sits up, blinking the remains of sleep from his eyes, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at his frustrations, “what, Jaskier?”

He snorts. ‘what,’ the man asks, as though it isn’t obvious, ‘what.’ He opens his mouth, waving at his now seemingly useless throat, hoping to get his point across.

Geralt sighs, a deep, radiating sound, somehow managing to communicate Jaskier’s frustrations better than he could himself. The hint of a frown touches Geralt’s face, weighing it down as he asks a needless question, “no change?”

Jaskier shakes his head, rage slowly radiating out, sapping into… he doesn’t know what, exhaustion maybe? Not physical exhaustion but something… deeper. Something settled in his chest, nestled behind heavy eyes.

Geralt grunts in answer, what a pair they make now, the wordsmith without words and the Witcher who refuses to use them. 

Then Geralt shifts, raising a hand towards Jaskier’s throat, he hesitates, fingers inches from skin, asking a silent question. Jaskier rolls his eyes but nods affirmative.

Geralt nods back before pressing a hand to Jaskier’s throat, he feels his body flutter at the touch, a light flush colouring his face. On instinct he swallows, feeling the press of shifting muscle against Geralt’s rough fingers.

It feels strangely… intimate. Geralt’s rough and calloused hands pressed so carefully against his bare throat.

He wasn’t scared of the Witcher, wasn’t scared of his touch.

Logically he knew if Geralt wanted to he could kill him with ease, he wouldn’t need Jaskier’s help to do it. Lord knows Geralt would have had plenty of opportunity to do it already if he wanted, plenty of easier, quicker chances…

And yet, in this moment it was hard not to think about how simple it would be, for the man to press down, just a touch harder, to curl those large hands around his throat and squeeze…

He knew he was just as safe now as he always was, and yet letting Geralt touch him like this, he couldn’t help but feel strangely… exposed. 

The flush deepens, dusting his cheeks, he fights the urge to swallow again, feel the shift of delicate skin against Geralt’s probing fingers.

He can’t resist a glance at Geralt’s face, lit up with concern and concentration, eyes mapping the soft flesh of Jaskier’s neck.

The eyes flick up, just for a moment, meeting Jaskier’s…

The hand drops away, landing heavy in Geralt’s lap with an accompanying sigh, “nothing feels… broken.”

He raises an eyebrow, mouth moving to bite back a witty response, the words he wants already curled the edge of his tongue…

His lip curls in frustration at the deafening silence, fuck.

Geralt sighs again, he is beginning to hate the sound, the weight behind it. A weight his throat now refuses to replicate.

Geralt pinches his brow, frown deepening. “We will find a healer, let me collect payment for the job, then we find you… someone to help.”

He huffs, less because he wants to, and more because it seems the only thing he is still capable of doing. Nods in unreasonably irritated agreement. 

Geralt nods back, moving to get up. Discussion over now. Not that he has any say in it anymore. Wonderful.

What a life this is.

* * *

The innkeeper is kind enough to point them in the direction of the town physician, a younger man, the youthful bright face failing to fill Jaskier with much confidence.

His fingers are cold, blunt. Prodding and poking at Jaskier, pushing in hard and just a touch too painful. Head pushed back, body tense as uncaring hands press against small and delicate bones. He fights back the urge to snap, to bite, lips curled up, teeth bared.

The hands aren’t satisfied with just the neck, also pressing into his chest, running down his body, prodding and poking still aching ribs. 

They land on a sensitive spot, he jolts, teeth gritted. Geralt places a hand on his shoulder, a comforting weight, balancing out the pain.

The prodding finally ends, the new frown painting the young man’s face manages to be even more concerning then the bubbly smile had been. Shit.

Geralt growls out the question for him, a mirrored frown making his own irritation clear, “what?”

The man titters, mumbling about bloody scrapes and bruised ribs. Useless words, nothing that offers any value. He rolls his eyes, wishing he could tell the man to shut up. 

Geralt seems to share his disinterest, growling out a, “get to the point.”

The young man stutters, words spilling over each other, “the- the point?”

“His throat. His _voice_.”

“Ah.” The man pauses, fingers tapping nervously, “ah. Yes. Now, well, now, there is… notable swelling, which could take time to… subdue.”

“How-” Geralt all but growls out, “long?”

“…A- a matter of weeks, for the swelling to go down I would guess, possibly- possibly longer… and then…” He trails off, fingers bouncing even more, nervous glances shot around the room, eyes not meeting theirs.

“And then?”

“And well- then- mmm well then either- either the voice returns- or… or it… doesn’t.”

He feels Geralt’s fingers tighten ever so slightly on his shoulder with that, he feels himself still. Feels himself stiffen, mind spinning. 

The young man is still talking, slow stumbling sentences, strung together in a desperate attempt to… mitigate the death stare Geralt is levelling at him, but he doesn’t bother to listen. Doesn’t want to know.

‘Or it doesn’t’

_‘Or it doesn’t’_

And this is his life. Forever.

He lets Geralt deal with paying the man, lets him bundle him out of the building, finds them standing outside, taking in breath full of sharp, crisp early air. Mind still spinning over those few, key words.

Geralt sighs beside him,

“Your voice will return. If it doesn’t… we will… deal with it. In a few weeks.” Geralt offers a half nervous glance towards him, “Until then…”

Geralt pauses, offers another awkward glance over, thrown by Jaskier’s… stillness. Silence. True, radiating silence, so unlike anything he had ever experienced from the bard before,

“Look, we best not to place too much weight on the words of a small-town physician, likely kills more patients then he saves knowing his type.” A definitive nod, mind made up, “it will return, and if it doesn’t, we find someone who can fix it.”

Geralt made it sound so easy. So simple. It returns. Or they make it return.

Now if only he could let himself believe that as well.


	3. the start of silence

A few weeks.

A few _weeks._

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know how he will deal with it.

Geralt deals with it as he deals with everything, in his general cold and gruff manner.

By ignoring it.

Cutting out anything that can be removed, bundling away and ignoring anything that can’t. Pretend everything is fine until it is once again.

It’s no surprise then, that he pushes them on, out the door, back on the road as early as possible.

Possibly too early.

With bruised ribs still aching, clotted cuts cracked and bleeding anew, Jaskier quickly realises it may have been wiser to wait a day or two before setting out once more.

And now he can’t even complain about it. Fuck.

It is stifling, he quickly comes to realise, being left with a seemingly every growing collection of words, trapped uselessly in his mind with no hope of escape. Ideas over spilling and tangling in on each other, buzzing in irritation, pushing to be released.

He tries to ignore it. It’s not that he _can’t_ be quiet. Despite some popular belief, he can.

But here… it’s the… Inability. It leaves him feeling suffocated, the inability to communicate. To share.

It leaves him buzzing, full of pent up energy with no release, an unnecessary jump in his step, restless arms shaking in an attempt to dispel it.

He finds himself considering throwing something at Geralt’s back as they walk. A rock maybe, plucked from the side of the road and lobbed at the Witcher. He would get to watch it bounce off one of the man’s firm shoulder blades.

He doesn’t.

Mostly because he doesn’t want to risk hitting Roach.

Instead he takes to sighing. Repeatedly. Softly to begin with, gentle and morose, but gradually it grows to something more… dramatic.

Head thrown back, boots scuffing the rough ground, he rests a hand on his heart, channelling everything he can into the sound.

He has to admit Geralt’s patience lasted longer than expected. He can track it in the slow shift of the Witcher’s muscles tightening, tension seeping in. A thread drawn taught, on the edge of-

“ _Jaskier_.” 

Geralt sighs himself. An irritated huff, half turning to snap out an irritated, “stop.”

Jaskier raises a hopefully questioning eyebrow at the request, doing his best to feign silent innocence.

“Stop-stop it.”

A shrug of the shoulders, one hopefully communicating that, truly, he is innocent here.

Geralt takes a breath, and Jaskier finds he can’t help but think Geralt sounds… surprisingly tired, “just-please, stop.”

He offers a final huff, soft and light, hoping to signal acceptance. It seems to work, Geralt turning back round, conversation over once more. Wonderful.

Back to the stifling, crushing silence.

Despite arguably being the only one who could he still didn’t expect to be Geralt to be the one break it.

He almost misses the words, as distracted as his mind is, untangling the messy threads of trapped thoughts, staring out over the comfortable green fields they slowly slip past. The words are quiet, almost silent as they slip past Geralt’s lips, “Jaskier- it- I…” A sigh, a shake of the head, Geralt shaking away whatever thought he had considered voicing. 

Jaskier raises an unseen eyebrow, a silent prompt gone unheard, Geralt continuing on in silence.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t bother trying to find a way to press the point, finding himself lacking the energy to do so without words to fall back on. 

Thankfully his inaction is for once rewarded, Geralt shooting him a nervous glance, clearly seeing Jaskier’s eyes on him, before softly speaking once more, “We can probably stop soon, if you want. It- we won’t reach town before night either way, might as well stop where it is comfortable.”

The words are surprising, Geralt has often proven happy to push on till almost dusk, wanting to cover as much ground as they can in a day, and while the sun is slowly shifting lower in the sky, he figures they still have at least a few good hours of light left, hours Geralt is apparently willing to give away for the creature comfort of a better camping spot.

He can’t help but smile at the offering, perhaps his… discomfort has not gone as unnoticed as he had assumed. While any rough sleeping spot is likely… less than perfect for his bruised body, he does not doubt a night in a comfortable green clearing would prove miles better than a night spent on the uneven forest ground that likely lays ahead. 

Geralt deals with setting up camp, he would normally do more to help, normally take care of his own bedding if nothing else, possibly help get the fire started, take a hand at cooking, do what he can to prove his use.

But today he lets himself settle, feeling the pull of aching muscles, a tight and tugging chest, throat sore and dry despite a day without use. 

He watches Geralt move, half content being cared for, half wishing he had the strength to help, mind providing quiet whispers, critiquing his uselessness, niggling thoughts of being a dead weight. 

Tries to ignore it, tries to shake it off, unable to fully shift such thoughts from his mind.

So instead he lets himself bask in the light of the freshly lit fire, the soft comfortable warmth working to relax his tense muscles. He shifts, tugs over his lute, pulling it into his lap, feeling the familiar, comforting weight. He plucks at the strings, fingers dancing across the instrument, playing an aimless tune. 

He keeps the music light, gentle. The music vibrates from his lute, through his body, a wonderous thrum rolling through his chest. Warming and comfortable. He hums along with it, can almost swear he feels the muscles in his throat move and vibrate along with the song, despite the lack of sound produced.

He ignores the lack of sound coming from his throat, focuses on the music flowing from his fingers.

Lets his eyes fall shut, lets clever fingers to play out the sounds he needs. It is soft, soft and warm, curled around his heart, gentle and comfortable.

He hears someone settle near him, lets tired eyes slowly slip open, meeting Geralt’s. He hums again, enjoying the feeling, even if it is likely doing more harm than good, still doing nothing to produce any sound.

Geralt smiles, light and soft, firelight glinting off the Witcher’s hair, bright and shining in the evenings fading light.

He smiles back, a small, still thing.

It is quiet, and it is still.

And for the first time that day he realises he is okay with that.

No words pushing to get out of his mind, nothing desperately needed to be said.

Just the quiet comfort of a shared moment, nothing more, nothing less.

He lets himself sit in it, lets the soft notes carry across the grey-green grass, floating up through flecks of firelight, bright and burning.

He finds himself watching the light play across Geralt’s face, the Witcher’s eyes slid shut, face unusually… soft. Gentle.

Perhaps, he finds himself thinking, this will not be so bad.

Perhaps he will survive the next few weeks after all.


	4. play nice

It takes them almost two more days to reach the next town over. Two days spent in silence. It takes much less than two days for the comfortable the sense of stillness to wear off and leave him once again trapped with a buzzing mind, stuck without release. 

Two days of a screaming mind, of aching ribs and sore feet, and of course a growing sense of exhaustion. Exhaustion only worsened by the hunger gnawing away at his stomach.  
Food, he had discovered, was currently just another problem. It hurt to chew. To swallow, to force anything other than soft liquids down a damaged throat.  
The first night he gave up after a few bites, ignored his grumbling stomach, the pain too great to bear. 

Geralt had frowned at that, tried to push him to eat more, resulting in a one-sided, mostly silent argument. It ended in the Witcher storming off in a huff, murmuring under his breath about ungrateful and unhelpful travel companions.  
Jaskier does his best not to take it personally. 

When Geralt does return they do not talk about it.  
Geralt does not talk about it.  
He continues to refrain from throwing anything at Geralt’s head.  
He is beginning to wonder how long his willpower will last. 

He doesn’t react beyond a pointed eyebrow raise when the next evening, in lieu of any roasted wildlife Geralt pushes a bowl of soup into his hands.  
It’s a warm broth, rich and flavourful and reassuringly filling.  
Geralt pretends not to stare at him over his own dinner, making sure Jaskier finishes the bowl, and he in turn pretends not to notice Geralt watching him eat. 

He plays again that evening, letting the music wash over him once more, carry off at least a portion of the days stress, taking solace in the soft stillness it brings.  
And yet despite the moments of stillness he can’t ignore the growing feeling of… anger and irritation surrounding them both.  
The nervous glances shot across the path, mirrored frowns painting both their faces. He wants to scream, stuck in an endless uncomfortable silence that stretches between them. Tensions strung much too high for comfort.

He can’t hold back a sigh of relief, when, a little after noon on the third day of their travel they spot a splattering of buildings, dotting the horizon.  
Finally, a new town, and with it the prospect of a soft bed, somewhere warm, somewhere he can rest his aching body, the possibility of work for Geralt, all things to look forward to. 

They reach the buildings in good time, a small miss mash collection of houses and storefronts. Much more a village than an actual town, as they realise on further inspection.  
Not that the distinction truly matters, as long as it is large enough to have lodgings for the night, then he will be satisfied. 

They have travelled together long enough to have a routine for arriving, Geralt starts with the village centre, checking the notice board if there is one, making his presence in town known.  
Meanwhile Jaskier scouts out any tavern, inn or pub he can find. Figures out where they will spend the night, takes note of the popular spots, ones with friendly patrons, ready to be liberated of a story, and maybe for a song or two, their coin. 

It’s an ingrained habit by now, one neither of them has mind to think about, tired from the day they let themselves fall into that familiar pattern. Geralt peels off towards the square, nods towards an inn, curled part way down a side street, same as always.  
And so he goes, tired feet carrying him over less than even cobblestones to the first, and possibly only, of the towns fine drinking establishments. 

He doesn’t think about it, not until he finds himself standing outside the worn wooden door, suddenly hit by the noise. The comfortable, drunken chatter, loud laughter sliding with ease under the door and spilling onto the street below.  
It hits him then. 

The heavy weight of his lute bouncing against his back. Strap pressing down on his shoulder, solid and sharp.  
He could still play it, of course he could still play it, as he had the last few days, but he knew that the music on its own will earn him no coin.

He doesn’t want to go in.  
What good would it do? What use would he be, no coin to earn, he’s not even sure he would be able to secure a room, clearly communicate the need to the innkeeper.  
He doesn’t want to go in, but he doesn’t know what else to do, not wanting to stay in the street as the sun slowly slips away, evening chill setting in.

The door swings open and he is hit by the wave of noise, cheerful chattering voices filling the air. The all too familiar scent, of the sweat of a crowded room, mixed with cheap alcohol. He gets a look inside, it’s decently populated, not overly crowded, comfortably full.  
It’s… inviting. Had it been any other time he would have felt a satisfying wave of excitement at the site, a welcoming rabble, ready to be charmed.  
He feels it for a moment, the wonderful reviving energy of a good crowd, the comfortable familiarity of a small country tavern, filled with the same familiar people he meets in each town they visit.  
But now… he finds the excitement is coloured, tinged with a touch of concern, a sinking fear at the thought of dealing with others without his voice. Without his words. His defence. 

Two drunks stumble out, throwing him a friendly nod and a smile as they go. He nods back, he can manage that, an easy moment of connection, no stakes.  
It… settles him slightly.  
He can go in, get a drink at least, he is sure he will be able to get that much across to an innkeeper if nothing else. 

Still, he slips in as quietly as he can manage, trying to draw no more attention then is necessary.  
Not that he manages to stay entirely discreet, eyes quickly drawn to his notably… flashy clothing, the bulky and unmissable instrument strapped to his back.  
Attention he does his best to shake off, ignore the questioning glances, looking for a quiet corner to settle in. Let him wave down a drink, see if he manages to overhear anything interesting to pass on to Geralt as he waits for the Witcher to come find him. 

He finds a corner. Does his best to settle. Does his best to pretend he doesn’t notice the other guest’s stares.  
He waves down a barmaid, does his best to signal for a drink, hopeful from the friendly nod she offers that some level of understanding had been reached. 

As he waits for the drink, he tries to ignore the eyes on his back, the quiet whispers… for the first time in a long time he almost finds himself wishing he had a more… covert style. Branding is important, and usually… well usually he would welcome the pressing stares, but now…

If the town had been just a touch bigger, just enough to get more regular visitors he’s sure he would have gotten his wish. Would have been almost completely overlooked, ignored unless he forced the attention.  
But it wasn’t. It was small, and its people bored, bored and curious.  
A woman across the room offers a friendly nod when he accidentally catches her eye, she looks towards the lute with keen interest, a hopeful question playing on her face. 

He drops his eyes to the table. Waits for the crowd to settle, to get bored once more and find a new distraction.  
A drink appears before him, the bar maid had understood his half-formed hand waving then, thank the gods for that. He takes a hearty gulp, holding back a choking splutter as the alcohol burns its way down his throat.

He nurses the rest of the drink much more slowly, taking care not to catch any more wandering eyes, gaze focused on the table until his drink is done.  
Only then does he look up, wave for another, rinse and repeat. 

Gods does he wish Geralt would hurry the fuck up.  
He glances up, hopeful, at each swing of the door, waiting to catch a glimpse of that all too familiar face. Where the hell was the man? 

The sun has set, the evening settled in, the crowd around him thinned slightly, although the remaining members loud enough and drunk enough it hardly made a difference, and yet there he was, still sat alone. Still waiting.

A figure swings into the chair before him, a large man wearing a friendly enough smile, although an… air of something darker clung to him, a threat of what may lay beneath the welcoming mask. That and the thick scent of cheap beer, strong enough to curdle your stomach.  
Jaskier takes a gulp of his drink. He does not make eye contact. 

The man nods in greeting, and, with reluctance, he nods back.  
“Where you from then lad?”  
A shrug is the best he can manage in response, hoping the man decides he’s not worth the bother of pressing. 

The man offers an unnerving smile at that, revealing sharp teeth. “Well lad? Which fancy city do you hail from?”  
He shrugs again, refusing to offer a better response.

The man chuckles, “alight then lad, doesn’t really matter anyway. What matters is what you’re doing here.” The man pauses, leaving him a gap to respond. He doesn’t take it.  
So instead the man eyes his lute, a concerning leer playing on his face, “you going to play us something then? Impress us with your pretty instrument?”  
The words have a concerning lilt to them, a careful threat.  
If he could talk… a range of snarky responses, just smart enough and polite enough to get away with them play through his mind, carefully crafted words, played off and used to lead into a roaring performance.

He supposes he could try to communicate his… current limitations, mouth silent words at the man, wave at his throat, try to get clear the issue here. But something holds him back. A deep seated… fear? Pride?  
He isn’t sure, but whatever it is it grips his heart in an agonising vice, holding back any thought of admitting his… inability. 

The man snorts at his silence, “What? You fancy boy too good to talk to the likes of us?”  
He grits his teeth, fighting down the wave of anger threatening to overwhelm him, make him do something stupid. 

“We can appreciate a good song as much as any lord or lady, go on, give us a song then boy,”  
He feels his hand clench. Fighting the urge to bite back, an irritated snarl tugging at his lips. 

“Didn’t you hear me boy?”  
The man leans in, uncomfortably close, the final word growled out, dangerously low, “Sing.”

He lungs.

Feels the hand curl around the back of his shirt. Yank him back.  
It seems Geralt had finally decided to arrive.  
About goddamn time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, just wanna warn y'all the next chapter might take a few days longer than usual, I'm going back under lockdown and my job is... mmm dying, so got some real life stuff to deal with for the next few days.


	5. one-sided questions

He hits the back of the chair with a heavy thump, breath knocked out of him. Geralt’s hand does not release the back of his doublet, stopping him from moving forward again even if he wanted to.

The man straightens, sliding back into his own space as well, eyeing the Witcher carefully. A passing flash of surprise and concern flicks past, before being quickly covered with the same friendly smile as before. “Alright friend,” he says with a welcoming nod, smile wavering slightly under Geralt’s stare.

The man gulps, gaze flicking between the two of them, “We were just having a friendly conversation, that’s all.”

Geralt grunts in response, if the man was hoping to have finally found the enthusiastic conversationalist of their group, he was to be sorely disappointed.

The smile flickers again, revealing an undercurrent of danger and fear, “We don’t want no trouble, isn’t that right lad?”

He doesn’t plan to react to the statement till Geralt’s intense gaze flicks down onto him as well. He returns the stare, noting the hint of concern hiding in the Witcher’s stare, the slight loosening of Geralt’s grip. His eyes briefly flick back to the man before them before offering a confirming nod, no, they don’t want any trouble tonight. 

Geralt nods back, before returning his stare to the stranger.

The man nods as well, smile picking back up, some of the tension finally easing from the air around them. “See, we are all friends here,” the man says with the edge of a chuckle. God, he doesn’t like this guy.

The man chuckles again, offers out a hand in truce. He stares at it. Geralt stares at it.

The hand slowly curls, pulled back, the man swallows nervously, “right,” he offers a final parting nod as he stands to finally leave them alone, “right, evening then, lads.” 

Jaskier lets out a sigh of relief watching the man leave.

The hand on his nape tightens momentarily before finally relaxing. 

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s voice is gruff, a warning of its own buried within the word.

He looks up, raises an eyebrow, god, he really had undervalued the power of eyebrows previously. He can almost see why Geralt enjoys this, the fun of a good silent, judging stare as an answer.

Geralt sighs, “How is it, that every time I leave you alone, you manage to get into some kind of trouble?”

He shrugs, in his defence it really wasn’t his fault this time.

Geralt sighs again, eyes the mostly empty glass in front of Jaskier wearily. He shifts, stares back, waits to see if Geralt is going to comment on it, ready to fight if he does.

Geralt clearly decides better, asking instead, “have you got us a room at least?”

That earns the Witcher a snort in response, a half-hearted wave at his throat, ‘had he got them a room?’ honestly.

Geralt at least has the decency to look half ashamed at that, “right, sorry, I just… right.”

Geralt winces, shifting uncomfortably before turning to head to the bar, leaving Jaskier to trail after him as he waves down the innkeeper.

The innkeeper is a stout man who carefully watches Geralt approach before asking, “can I help you gentlemen?”

“We need a room for the night,” Geralt pauses, glancing over at Jaskier, “possibly longer,” Geralt all but grunts out the words.

The innkeeper’s gaze bounces nervously between Geralt and Jaskier, hesitation flickers across his face.

Geralt sighs, tugs open his coin purse to toss a few coins onto the bar, “A. Room.” 

He hates the smile that paints the man’s face the moment he sees the coins, the fake welcoming grin shaped across it as he scoops up the money, “A room, of course gentlemen,” he waves over the barmaid from before, “Alice will be more than happy to show you the way.”

Alice directs them up a well-worn wooden staircase, leading the way to a somewhat… cramped room, just a touch too small to feel cosy. She hands over the key, pausing only to ask if they want dinner brought up, Geralt grunting affirmative to the question.

He edges into the room, slides his lute off his back and carefully props it against a wall before collapsing onto the small bed with a satisfied groan. Proper bedding, a soft-ish mattress, it’s all he’s ever wanted. 

He sighs in contentment. Tries to pretend he doesn’t feel Geralt’s eyes on the back of his head.

He groans. Opens tired eyes and reluctantly rolls over, meeting Geralt’s stare. The Witcher plays dumb the moment he does. Gaze promptly jumping elsewhere, pretending he wasn’t watching Jaskier. 

He opens his mouth, closes it. Huffs in irritation. He wishes he could release the tension, provide a causal distraction as he usually would. Ask if Geralt found work, complain about the unpleasant stink from the bar that seemed to have settled into his clothes.

Ramble on, about everything and nothing all together. 

He picks at his shirt, gods the smell really had begun to set in, they should have asked for a bath along with the room. Offers a tired sigh to the room.

Pretends not to notice Geralt’s occasional nervous glances, the Witcher pretending to busy himself organising their bags, clearly still reluctant to actually… say anything. 

He wonders if this will last until he regains his voice. ~~Assuming he ever regains his voice.~~ Perhaps sitting in tense silence, shooting each other nervous glances out of the corner of their eyes will become their new normal.

He wonders if the irritated silence will prove enough to just kill him. drive him slowly insane, the need to say something. The knowledge that the only one of them who could say something seems stubbornly against talking.

Content to let the tension grow, until one of them explodes-

“I found a job.”

He jumps at Geralt’s voice, not expecting the man to suddenly finds his words. Tires to look as encouraging and interested as possible, hoping to drag at least a few more words out of Geralt.

“there’s something in the lake, grabbing the odd swimmer.” Geralt stops, glancing over at him, so he nods, shows he’s listening.

Geralt sighs, shifts, seeming oddly uncomfortable before finally continuing “it’s likely just a drowner or two, nothing to worry about. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

He perks up at that, a hunt, good. At least one of them would be able to earn some coin in this place, lord knows they would need it to afford the room for more than a day, and it wasn’t like he would be any use for a while. Thank god at least one of them would have the chance to gain something from this town.

Geralt apparently misjudges his excitement.

“You, are staying here.”

He almost laughs at the words, but nods instead. You won’t get any complaints about that from him. He has no interest in trailing behind Geralt to stand in a cold and soggy lake just to deal with a few odd drowners. He’s seen enough of those things to last a lifetime. No he had no interest in sloshing through muggy water, not when he could instead spend the time slumbering on a half-way comfortable bed, finally giving his still exhausted body a rest.

Geralt seems surprised at that, eyeing him suspiciously.

He sorts, fine, let Geralt doubt him. He will see tomorrow that Jaskier truly has no interest in following him on some dull slosh around a swamp.

Geralt huffs out a soft laugh, “fine, good.” The Witcher falls silent, gaze shifting around the room, mouth open slightly. He looks as though he wants to say something else, words hesitating on the edge of his tongue, reluctant to actually say whatever it is.

Whatever it is interrupted by a knock on the door, the return of the barmaid scarring away whatever thought Geralt was wrestling with. Alice bustles in, dropping off dinner, shooting Jaskier a coy and quiet smile as she goes.

He smiles back, more out of politeness than anything else, unsure he would want to… pursue anything in his current state.

Geralt snorts at the exchange, clearly unimpressed, offering Jaskier his meal along with a shake of the head, “is it going to be safe to leave you here alone tomorrow?”

He rolls his eyes, accepting the bowl, grateful when dinner turns out to be a thick stew and chunk of slightly stale bread. He tosses his slice to Geralt, before straining out the pieces of mystery meat and somewhat wilted vegetables to drink the salty broth.

It is warm and filling if nothing else.

He relaxes after dinner, changing into a clean shirt before he settles back on the bed once more, stomach full, eyes heavy and tired. Listens to Geralt prepare for tomorrows hunt, the soft rustling of bags and clinking of bottles, the quiet huff of a breath. 

After a while he feels Geralt sit on the other side of the bed, the mattress small enough Geralt’s weight tugs him to the centre of the bed, bodies lightly knocking together.

He huffs, shifts but doesn’t bother to complain. It’s unavoidable, given the size of the space, and it’s hardly like they haven’t shared a bed before.

Geralt sighs beside him, shifting, but seemingly not yet lying down to sleep.

He ignores the disturbance, content to let Geralt do what he pleases, so long as he lets Jaskier finally get the sleep he wants.

He is just on the cusp of drifting off when Geralt’s voice tugs him back to consciousness. 

“You-” the rest of the words are a mumbled grumble, too low for him to hear. He flicks open an eye, offering Geralt as much attention as he can be bothered to give. 

Geralt flicks an all too familiar nervous glace at him before continuing, “you aren’t going to play tonight?” 

He hums. Tires to hum, surprised by the question but too close to sleep tease apart why. He glances over to the lute on the other side of the room, shakes his head no. No he won’t play tonight. 

Geralt looks away, “right… right.”

If he was more awake, he might raise an eyebrow at that. Maybe try to tease Geralt for daring to imply he does actually enjoy Jaskier’s music.

But as is… he simply shifts, snuggling down, blanket pulled up, finally ready a well-earned sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live


	6. preparations

Geralt is gone by the time he wakes up, the bright sun shining through the rooms small window. The fact is neither surprising nor concerning. He doubts the man has actually gone to hunt yet. Geralt will likely wait until the evening for that, drowners are always more active around dusk.

He assumes the Witcher is simply out for supplies, gathering any remaining herbs, potions, or really anything else that he might need for the hunt.

A glance around the room confirms the theory, Geralt’s armour still piled on a chair in the side of the room. It is safe to assumes Geralt will return sometime in the afternoon before setting out that evening.

He stretches, feels sore joints pop, muscles stretching with a wonderful pain. God it feels good to wake up in a real bed. To give the mess of injuries and aches scattered over his body a real chance to settle, to start to heal.

Cuts allowed to clot over without being ripped open anew, swollen feet able to settle, the twinge in his back finally fading.

It aches.

The feeling of healing.

The feeling of bones clicking as they slot back where they belong, muscles tugging as they start to untangle. To regrow, fill in the gaps. Body throbbing and shifting, twisting back into place. 

It aches. It itches, the stifling, unusual and uncomfortable agony of healing. The stretch of too tight skin struggling to stitch itself back together again.

His throat is the worst of it. 

It burns.

Skin hot to touch when he presses a cool, soft hand against it. Try to sooth the pain.

It is parched and dry, yet somehow slick and sharp. Cracked and broken, the taste of metal flooding his mouth, hot on the tip of his tongue. He often finds himself fighting back the desire to swallow, try to sooth the burning pain, knowing the movement will only make it worse.

He can only hope this means it is healing. Only hope this is how it is supposed to feel.

He wishes he knew how to sooth it, calm it, sap at least some of the pain, sadly unsure of how to do that.

So instead he aims for distraction, digs through his satchel to tug free a well-worn notebook, running low on fresh paper. He has intended to buy a new one for a while, kept meaning to grab one when they trailed through a new town, just never quite getting around to it yet.

The need to replace it clearly even stronger now, fresh paper having grown in its importance.

So, he writes.

He tries to write. Tries to stay focused on the paper, putting down the noisy stream of thoughts that had spent the last few days buzzing through his brain. Twisting and turning them into lyrics, tired thoughts spun into messy poetry, splashed onto messy pages.

It doesn’t help as much as he had hoped it would.

Doesn’t relieve the pressure as much as he thought it might. 

He had hoped it would be… freeing, a release, a relief. 

Instead it almost feels futile. Concepts moved from being thoughts trapped in his head to words on trapped on a page, doomed to lie, still and unspoken for several weeks to come ~~and maybe longer.~~

He stares at the markings, ink dried and dead on the page, wishing for more.

But it’s not all useless, he finds some success when he gives up on spinning carefully crafted tales, actual songs and stories, anything with value in it, and instead tries to simply scribble down the rambling mess trapped within his mind. Disjointed and formless, niggling thoughts finally expelled and realised.

It helps, for a time.

Gives the thoughts order. Purpose. Briefly. 

But before long the novelty of this runs out as well.

Eventually he just gives up, leaves crumpled notes abandoned on the table, feeling like a scribbled mess of too many words, yet somehow not enough said.

With nothing else to do he somewhat reluctantly drags himself downstairs in search of a late breakfast, well to be honest, lunch, or perhaps just a drink.

The inn is empty when he first enters, taking in the space in the musty light of day. It seems smaller than he remembered, without the crowding, lively bustle of bodies filling the space, pressing in from every side.

Smaller and safer.

A sound from behind startles him, the sharp creak of a poorly oiled door and heavy footsteps. He turns to find the barmaid from last night, face familiar while her name escapes him.

Still, he offers a friendly smile, lifting a hand in a half-wave of greeting, relieved when she smiles back, giving a friendly nod, a quiet, “hello,” she pauses, leaving a gap in case he wished to speak before continuing, “can I help you with anything?”

He nods.

“A drink? A meal?”

He nods again- realises the mistake as soon as he does, whatever she brings he most likely wont be able to eat, but it’s too late to correct that now, she having already bustled away to grab him some food.

Luck however proves to be on his side, he lets out a sigh of relief when she quickly returns with a watery porridge and a drink. The bowl of soft stewed grain is carefully placed before him with another friendly smile.

He wonders how long it will take till his silence annoys her enough to destroy the smile.

The food is… edible. Warm-ish and musty enough he can actually eat it. Mostly, slowly, taking time to smush any larger lumps against the side of the bowl. 

The barmaid – he wishes he could ask her name, feeling rude to think of her just as the barmaid in his mind- pretends to busy herself around the bar as he eats, making the occasional determined attempt to engage him in conversation.

She starts simple, “food alright?”

He nods offhandedly, trying to look as unengaged as possible.

“so, you and your friend planning to stay long?”

He shrugs, likely not, Geralt always likes to keep moving, follow the coin, and given that Geralt’s coin was currently their own source of income he was hardly in a place to argue.

“Any big plans for while you’re here?”

Another shrug as he gulps down more food, tries to angle the mouthful of porridge as a believable reason not to speak.

She sighs, stops her play tidying to lean on the bar, try a different tactic, “so, rumour is you’re a bard, we going to at least get a song out of you before you go?”

He freezes. Feels muscles lock into place, hoping she doesn’t press, hoping she changes the topic-

“It would make good payment, for use of the room, for the food…” She pauses, glancing down, a light blush dusting her cheeks, “and I’d… love to hear you play, if you wanted.”

He swallows, thankful for the spoon currently in his mouth, head tilts in fake consideration, just enough to suggest possible agreement.

Thankfully any further attempts at coaxing him into conversation are halted when Geralt suddenly bustles in, wrapped packages tucked under his arm, spoils from a morning well spent. The Witcher freezes, hit with a brief flash of surprise at seeing Jaskier seated at the bar, seemingly having expected him to stay locked away in their room like a helpless damsel, rather than dare to venture back out on his own again.

He quirks an eyebrow, Geralt nodding briefly in response before quickly scurrying off towards their room.

He gulps down the rest of his meal as quickly as he can manage, heading to trail back up the stairs after Geralt.

He finds the Witcher tidying, fresh bought potions and packages mostly sorted away, slipped into bags, organised into the little space they have. Geralt glances up when Jaskier enters, nodding a greeting, “alright?”

He shrugs a soft affirmative, not fully a lie.

Geralt grunts out a “good,” focused on his task, the man seemingly preparing for his hunt. Jaskier frowns at that, raises an eyebrow and aims a purposeful glance out the window, sun still higher in the sky than Jaskier would have expected, for Geralt already to be heading out.

Geralt grunts again, offers a shrug, “figure I’ll get it done early, if I can.”

He nods, unsure how else to respond. Unsure how else he could respond.

Geralt nods back, hesitates, an unsure pause, “…got you something,” he waves to the desk.

Jaskier turns, sees a simple brown package sits between abandoned scribbles and notes. He tears it open eagerly, staring at surprise at the new notebook nestled inside. A simple thing, plain leather binding, pages sturdy and strong. He runs a finger down the spine, marvelling at the item.

Geralt speaks from behind him, watching uneasily, “saw it in the market, it’s no big deal.”

The words have an undertone to them. A suggestion. Don’t make it a big deal. Don’t address it.

As though to drive home the point Geralt turns away, setting the bags down to sit on the edge of the bed, attention turned fully from Jaskier, back to his work.

At the desk he shifts, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, cold. He places the notebook down carefully, turning to watch Geralt. He feels strangely out of place, shifting nervously in the side of the room, feeling like a voyeuristic watcher, peering in on Geralt’s life.

He tilts, weight shifting forward, swaying unsure and uncomfortable. He watches as Geralt gathers up his armour, seeming not to notice. A sway, he lurches forward, nervous feet suddenly carry him across the room, propelled towards Geralt.

Geralt jumps slightly at his presence but allows him to pry the thick leather free of the Witcher’s grip, tug it up, onto Geralt’s firm shoulders.

Geralt shifts, rolling into the fit, but making no comment as nimble fingers dance across his chest, carefully coaxing closed stiff clasps and buckles. They don’t talk as Jaskier works.

Geralt doesn’t talk.

He listens to the huff of Geralt’s breath, slow and steady, focuses on the rough material beneath his fingers, leather soft and warm, well cared for.

Task done too soon hands hesitate for a moment, resting on Geralt’s firm shoulders before dropping away.

He steps back as Geralt stands, before silently gathering the rest of his gear. the Witcher pauses at the door, offering a glance back, a quiet, “I should be back before morning.”

He swallows. He wants to wish him luck. He wants to tell him to be careful. To return safely.

He watches silently as Geralt leaves, listening to heavy foots falling on old wooden steps, slowly fading away.


	7. dealing

**Geralt POV.**

The water is cold.

Dirty.

He fails to see why anyone would choose this as a swimming spot.

Yet clearly many had, and if reports where true then several of them had quickly come to regret the decision. All in all, it seems somewhat unwise for the rest to continue returning here.

Not that it is his place to judge the decisions of men.

He kicks a clump of mud with his boot, watching it splatter, spread. Tries to focus on the water, focus on the deceivingly calm surface, watch for ripples, bubbles, anything out of place, any suggestion of the dangers that lay below.

Not let his mind wander. Open up the little, niggling thought, bouncing around the back of his mind. Tugging, demanding…

The bard was fine. The bard will be fine. The bard will regain his voice and still be a _fucking_ bard.

It had only been… five days? Or maybe four. He should keep better track of things. Not that it was his job to. Not that he needed to.

It had only been a handful of days.

A handful of days with no change. A handful of days out of a few weeks.

Fuck.

He isn’t worried.

He reminds himself of this fact, lazily skimming a rock over the surface of the lake, watching it skitter out into the deep water, disappearing into the muck.

Watches nearby reeds rustle in response, senses prick, ears alert- a waterfowl scatters out, in search of a new resting spot, false alarm. 

He huffs softly, eyes the dark water lapping at the toe of his boot, feeling oddly… reluctant to actually enter it, but then he has a job to be done. One that needs doing, both for the village and their own survival. Gods only know they’ll need the coin that was promised.

Particularly with Jaskier currently out of commission, his income had allowed for the indulgence of creature comforts they would now have to go without.

Assuming he shares his coin- assuming he pays for the bard as well, he doesn’t have to pay for Jaskier-

He will though.

He knows he will.

He will pay for what Jaskier needs and he will be fine.

Not that he’s worried about it.

He isn’t.

He isn’t worried. He doesn’t _worry._

He does press forward, slow, calculated steps away from the safety of the shore bank.

The water presses back, cold and demanding, pushing against strong leather, searching for cracks. Boots sinking into thick mud, gummy yet slick, trying in turn to glue his feet in place.

He focuses on the pressure, the wet cold pushing in, eyes skimming clear water, sight slowly greying in the evening light.

He splashes as best he can, heavy footsteps disturbing water and muck alike. Making his presence known. Hoping to draw the attention of anything nearby.

A duck scuttles off, taking flight, a few smaller birds scatter as well, tittering amongst themselves.

Wonderful.

He scrubs a tired hand down his face. Fuck this would be easier if he could just focus.

Shut up the nervous whisper, trying to derail all his thoughts.

Fill his head with unnecessary questions. Speculations. Wondering how Jaskier is, how he will be.

Mind wandering, wondering what Jaskier is doing right now.

The idiot better not get himself into more trouble- the last thing Jaskier needs in his condition is to be in a bloody bar fight.

The water laps at the edges of his boots, threatening to overspill, soak into thick fabric, press it firm against the skin.

He kicks a foot, watches muddy water splash up, a scattering of droplets sticking to his skin. He rolls heavy shoulders, watching the sun slowly dip and fade.

It would be useful if he could find the bloody thing before dark. Before he loses the full comforts of the sun, warmth and light both useful, if not necessary aids to have on his side.

Easier to see what is in the water, lake quickly darkening, muddy water shifting to a dark, inky black, somehow even less inviting then before. It laps at his legs, almost like it wanted to pull him in.

He’s half tempted to let it. Plunge into the depths, make enough of a ruckus that anything living in the lake wouldn’t be able to ignore him. See what happens then.

He won’t.

It would be an unnecessary risk. He won’t do it. no matter how tempting a solution it seems. A way to speed things along. Let this be over and done with and let him get back.

Get back to the room. To a warm bath, a hot meal and a soft bed. ~~and Jaskier.~~

He was not worried.

He bought the man a fucking notebook.

Like an idiot.

As though Jaskier didn’t already have one, wouldn’t have already thought about such a thing.

He bought him a fucking notebook. A stupid, impulse buy.

Gods. At least he can’t actually hear Jaskier tell him how stupid it was, or more likely fake appreciation.

It was absolutely pointless-

Something curls around his leg. A cold, tight grip.

About fucking time.

* * *

**Jaskier POV**

It is late by the time Geralt returns. Dinner had already been eaten and the bath the inn-keep delivered had begun to cool. The water still warm to the touch, but only just so.

Jaskier had taken advantage of the clean water, scrubbing free the past few days of dirt and grime, and more old blood than he would like to acknowledge.

Bathing had been a slippery tightrope, between sinking into the wonderous relaxation of warm water, soft on the skin, and dealing with what the act of stripping down revealed.

The bruises were well set by now, deep purple pools, blotted across his chest, his arms, hips, legs. Dark and foreboding, standing at clear contrast to his otherwise pale skin. The marks where accompanied with a scattering of cuts and scrapes, spots where the skin had been torn off and was struggling to rebuild itself.

It hurt, to see it. He didn’t like to look, stomach curdling at the sight, but he knew it is necessary. Necessary to carefully check each cut and mark, ensure soft skin is doing what it should to stitch itself back together again. Make sure nothing is any more out of place then it was before, track the path of tired bones slowly pushing back to where they belong. 

Part of him is glad Geralt isn’t here to see it. Glad he doesn’t have to watch Geralt attempt to advert his stare, while secretly tracing the beaten skin, eyes carefully mapping out each bloody bruise staining his body.

Instead he is allowed to sit alone with his pain. Letting it sap out as best it can, dispersing along with stale blood into the soothing waters. Feeling muscles shift, relax, tension slipping out as much as possible.

At one-point he trailed a soft hand up along bruised ribs to settle softly around his throat, skin still flushed, warm to the touch. He swallowed, feeling bones and muscles shift below his hand, wincing at the pain.

He tries not to dwell on it.

He had done his best to settle after the bath, restless energy having mostly washed away with the dirt, worn off and faded below the comforts of soft water.

It leaves him warm and heavy. Skin soft, radiating heat.

He finds himself spread on the bed, not properly settled but stretched lazily on top of the covers, hand tapping out an aimless tune against his skin, leg swaying half-restlessly, an outlet for the remaining whispers of irritated energy. 

He jumps when the door bangs open, bouncing on its hinges, revealing the Witcher, blood dripping from well-worn leather and pooling messily on the ground.

He wipes the rest from his eyes, head tilted in greeting, unsurprised by the shapeless grunt he receives in answer. The Witcher is tired, an irritated weariness visible on his face as he pushes into the room, leaving a trail of dark red splotches behind him.

He watches as Geralt slugs off heavy armour, dumping it somewhat unceremoniously on the chair in the side of the room. A stained shirt and pants follow suit not long after, Jaskier having the decency not to stare if nothing else. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow at the sight of the bath, fingers trailing through the tepid water, watching the remaining tendrils of Jaskier’s blood and grime curl around his fingers.

Thankfully the Witcher makes no comment on it beyond the look, instead simply lowering himself into the bath with a contented groan.

Jaskier doesn’t stare.

He… observes, watching the messy spread of blood and guts, red handprints stark on the edge of the tub. The water darkens quickly, becoming a thick, dark mess fair too quickly for comfort.

Not that Geralt seems to mind, or possibly even notice, scrubbing off the remaining chunks of flesh and guts still sticking to his skin.

Geralt doesn’t comment on the watching eyes, choosing to do them both a favour and hold his tongue, and in return Jaskier does nothing to draw any more attention, content to remain a silent observer, still lazily sprawled on their bed.

He lasts until Geralt starts on his hair. The Witcher cupping water to pour over it, the act proving mostly pointless. At this point the water itself was so filthy that most it could achieve was the simple redistribution of dirt, rather than its removal.

He lets Geralt try a few times, before finally pushing up, off the bed, to slowly amble over to the bath.

He grabs a jug on the way, knowing at this point they will need more than the bathwater to get the job done.

Geralt makes no comment as he settles behind him. Makes no comment as he carefully pours the cold contents of the jug over the Witcher’s head.

He uses his fingers to pry free the worst of it, tugging loose knots, nails scraping free the remains of somethings intestines. 

The work isn’t by any means perfect, what little clean water he has quickly runs out, and the more persistent stains refuse to be removed, even with the most determined scrapping. He is eventually forced to concede, hands dropping away with a soft sigh, the worst of it had been washed away if nothing else. 

He jumps when Geralt stands without warning, eyes dropping down to focus on the floor as quickly as he can manage, tracing the messy splattering of dark water against well worn wood floorboards.

He hears Geralt move, seeing more water splash free, already soaking into the wood, almost appearing to stain it red.

He hears Geralt step out of the tub, cross the room, eyes still stuck on the floorboards, not looking up till he is sure the Witcher is dressed once more.

Only then does he raise his gaze, unintentionally landing on the Witcher’s broad back, covered by nothing more than a thin shirt.

Geralt turns, catching his eye before he has time to look away. For a moment they both pause, gaze locked. The rest of the room seems to fade away, focus fully on each other.

And then Geralt turns away, collapsing onto the bed with a contented grunt, seemingly settling almost instantly.

He lets his hand trail through the bath.

The water feels like ice against his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i am just casually changing the format rules of my own story out of nowhere, and yes it will likely happen again.


	8. Back on the path

He would have liked to stay longer. Have more time spent in a real bed, more time for knots in his back to fully unravel, for his bruises to begin to fade. Perhaps indulge in another bath, soak in sweet smelling waters once more.

But he also knows they cannot afford such a thing. Cannot afford to spend the little coin they have wasting away here on unnecessary comforts, especially with finances being as tight as they currently are.

Most of what little coin they had is spent on replacing necessary supplies, leaving just enough left over to book a room for a night or two wherever they next stop, so staying truly isn’t much of an option.

So, despite his desires he doesn’t press. Doesn’t comment when Geralt tells him to pack, to prepare for the road. He holds his tongue, not willing to become more of a burden then he already is beginning to feel he is.

By mid-morning the next day they find themselves on the road once more, ready for a long walk ahead. A long, long walk. Word from the inn suggested that apart from the place they came from there were no villages within a week’s walk from there.

His feet ache at the very idea of it.

Thankfully the first few days are mercifully uneventful. They slip past as painlessly as they can, body already tired of sleeping rough once again. A messy blur of miles slipping past, stretching green fields giving wat to a lush and lively forest.

For a time, tall trees line their way, filtering through the light, birdsong bright in the air. Everything bight and green and sweet. 

But the forest in turn slowly shifts, nicely tamed trees lining the path becoming wild and overgrown. Branches dangling down, over the rarely trodden path, kissing the top of his head as he passes. Leaving a scattering of leaves on the ground, to be trodden into the dirt under a heavy heal.

Brambles slowly encroach, eating away at the border between the path and the wild, tugging at his clothes if he dares to stumble too close. Sweet atmosphere gives way to… dangerous undertones. The taste of the wild in the air.

Usually he would not mind being out here as much as some might think. While it is true that he is always keen to indulge, truly one who likes to enjoy the finer things in this life, he can’t deny the particular… thrill that comes with being out here.

Away from everything, from the pressures and responsibility of society. He must admit he understands how some find it freeing.

But more than that, for him it was the experience of being surrounded by the energy of it all, the chance of danger, the promise of adventure.

Granted the thrill was somewhat weakened at the moment. Buried under the ache of straining muscles, the stain of slowly fading bruises, dark purple only just starting to fade to an unpleasant and sickening yellow.

The pain dampens the excitement, worry overriding the thrill of an adventure, leaving just the nervous undertones of danger tugging on his mind. 

Still, these parts seem sparsely occupied by friend or foe, they had seen few living creatures other than the odd bird, the hares Geralt would catch for dinner, and on occasion a fox, when they happened too close to her burrow, sending her scurrying past, nipping at their heels.

They had met no other men so far, no random rugged travellers braving the trail.

And despite the wildness of the trees around them, they had to date always managed to find a half-way suitable spot to spend the night. A space free enough from brambles and bushes to allow them rest.

Things were… amicable between Geralt and him. Days were still spent mostly in silence, mind wandering. Sometimes he plays as they walk, or simply taps out a tune, hand bouncing against his leg, flicking out a familiar tune. It helps, gives him something to focus on. Something other then the silence radiating off Geralt.

In the evenings, while Geralt deals with dinner, he has taken to writing, scribbling down anything and everything that had stuck in his mind, refusing to leave. Getting good use of his new notebook if nothing else.

Dinner has become one of his favourite times, as often over the meal Geralt will offer snippets of a one-sided conversation. Off handed remarks, commenting on the days ride, the food before them, or at times, the occasional brisk story, as detail-less and brief as always.

He drank them all in, every sentence that spilled from Geralt’s lips, playing it over in his mind, getting everything he can from it.

Listening becomes a careful balancing act, a game of looking just interested enough to keep Geralt talking, but not overly so, never too invested. For that, he had found, had the adverse effect of making Geralt shut down and stop speaking entirely.

After the meal he likes to play again, this music is different from the unstructured, messy fun he plays during the day. In the evenings he takes his time, lets himself feel the music, float up, into the air alongside carefully crafted sounds. 

He hums along as best he can, hoping the decision doesn’t do more to hurt his throat.

He can almost produce a sound, a light, raspy noise, only just edging out of his cracked throat. he still feels more than hears it.

He nearly jumps out of his skin the first time Geralt joins in, fingers bouncing on the strings, missing a beat or two. Surprised by the low, gravelly hum, mercifully mostly in tune merging with his own mostly silent huff.

He continues on as quickly as he can, covering up the slip up, not wanting to do anything to disrupt the moment. Do anything that would throw Geralt off, make him stop. 

The sound is low and rough, not quite perfect, but that somehow just made it seem more… right. It warms him, settling solid and heavy within his chest, alongside his heart. He risks a glance at Geralt, finds the Witcher sitting still, eyes closed, an unusual state of calm clear on his face.

They don’t address it afterwards.

He can’t help but smile when Geralt joins in again the next evening as well.

He should have known it wasn’t to last. Should have known their luck wasn’t going to hold forever. It never does.

At least this time it decidedly wasn’t his fault. At this point he would take the small victories like that when he can get them.

This time he hadn’t done anything.

He had simply settled down early one evening, quill slowly scratching over paper, mind busy on his own business. Aimless thoughts tossed free, onto a page. He sits. Stretched comfortably, back against a tree, taking advantage of the branches to protect him from the light drizzle, hoping no worse comes from the dark, overcast sky.

He keeps a lazy ear out for Geralt, the Witcher out to retrieve dinner. Not overly concerned keeping track of the mind, sure Geralt would blunder back over after not too long, whatever game he caught thrown over a shoulder.

In retrospect he perhaps should have kept a better ear out.

Had the mind to pay more attention to the dark and wild space around them.

Perhaps if he had he would have heard the fall of careful footsteps, sipping over the uneven forest floor. The click of a crossbow bolt sliding into place, the swish of a hidden blade pulled free, spun comfortably in a clever hand. 

He realises just a moment too late.

A shiver running up his spine, a sudden chill, feeling unseen eyes on him, hearing the shift of moving bodies, the huff of breath-

His hand goes to his hip, fingers curling round his own blade, ready to pull it free.

A thud, a shove, body seemingly materialising round the side of a tree, sending him sprawling against the ground.

He falls. Fingers curl into soft dirt, clinging tight to clumps of grass, trying not to panic. Feeling his heart pick up, already clawing its way up his throat, blood pumping, quick and painful.

He sucks in a broken breath, eyes flicking between the cloaked figure standing before him to sword edge hovering only inches from his throat.

It hits him then, with a deep, sinking fear, settled heavy in his chest, that he can’t even scream.


	9. Don't Panic

**Geralt POV**

It had been a week.

Over a week.

Nine days. Nine days at least.

Nine days of heavy silence.

He had almost thought he would enjoy it to start with, when he first heard the details of Jaskier’s injury, after the concern settled. After he locked down the worry, shoved it into a corner of his mind. He had the passing thought, it might be nice, to finally have some blessed silence on his travels.

Soft, echoing silence, letting him rest.

And in truth it almost had, on occasion. The fleeting moments on the trail when he forgets this silence isn’t voluntary, when he forgets the reason behind the quiet. Sitting in calm silence, not noticing the underlying tension, the energy flickering through the air. 

It was almost nice.

Almost.

Until he caught sight of Jaskier, out the corner of his eye. Took note of the way Jaskier still cradled his ribs, an arm sometimes wrapped carefully around his side. The careful shift of weight, trying not to pull or press on aching muscles.

The slight stench of heat and pain, sticking to Jaskier’s skin, mixed with the hints of old, dried blood.

Sometimes he found he didn’t even need the visceral reminder of Jaskier’s pain for the silence to become uncomfortable.

Sometimes the silence did that on its own.

The lack of nagging commentary, comments on the flowers, the sky, pretty ladies he had never met, and sometimes began to wonder if Jaskier truly had either.

The echoing silence in place of a surprised shriek when some poor wild critter skitters out across the path before them.

The empty space where he would have expected probing questions, the voicing of unnecessary concerns, warning him to take care. 

He was finding that being stuck with his own thoughts had been much easier when his thoughts were less focused on one bloody, foolish bard. 

Even now, when his mind should be focused on a hunt, searching out dinner, enough meat for a meal or two, but instead, he finds his mind spinning, flipping through worried thoughts, needlessly focused on Jaskier.

A songbird settles on a branch above, singing a cheerful tune, light and sweet.

He tilts to look at it, feeling an odd, heavy tug in his chest.

A tugging weight he was becoming uncomfortably familiar, settling itself firm against his heart at the pluck of lute strings. The tapping sound of restless fingers against a hardbound book. 

He would never admit it. He will never admit it, but he misses it.

Singing.

The sound of song, of a soft voice lilting through the air. Lazy words hummed into the early morning air, the pieces of gentle and mournful love ballads, scattered out below the stars.

Not that he would ever dare say such a thing, let that fact ever slip free from between his lips, give Jaskier the satisfaction of that truth. Make it real, for both the bard and himself.

He sighs, tries to focus back on the task at hand. Tries to listen for anything other than just the rustle of wind through the leaves. Pick out the stirring of a creature, skittering across the forest floor, the flutter of heavy wings or stomp of an angry hare. 

The bird calls out above him once more, chattering as it bounced from branch to branch, wings rustling through the air.

If it where not for the bird he would almost have begun to wonder if he was alone out here.

For apart from the two of them, it is quiet.

Still.

Stifling-

There is a shift.

A ripple.

The faint crack of a branch crushed under careful footfall.

A sound out of place, the rustle of fabric shifting on a moving body, heavy boots scuffed against the dirt floor. A distant sound, just close enough to be a concern.

Someone was out there.

It could be nothing.

It could be fine, an unimportant visitor. Unknown passer-by, happy to come and go without ever disturbing them. Or perhaps even a friendly face, happy to settle and share a hot meal with them that evening before moving on.

But when, given his luck, was it ever nothing?

He turns, dinner forgotten for the time, headed instead back to camp.

* * *

**Jaskier POV**

He swallows. Eye’s glued on the blade. The blade inches from his throat. Much too close for comfort.

His gaze flickers back nervously to the man on the other end of the blade, a tall man, thin, his dark clothes hanging off his frame. A thin cloak pulled over his head hiding his face from view, a less than comforting sight.

He swallows again, nervous, heart beating out a maddening tune within his chest, trying, gods, trying so hard not to panic. The bastard hadn’t just straight out stabbed him yet, so that was something at least. Perhaps they can find a way through this without bloodshed, depending on what this asshole wants.

The blade tips, a bony hand tilting it ever so slightly forward, even closer to the delicate neck below it. His breath hitches, catching within his throat.

“Gold.”

Ah, straight to the point then. He can appreciate that, no messing around, no needless threats, just a simple, understandable demand.

He shifts, shuffles backwards slightly, hands risen in defence, trying to keep the bastard before him calm if nothing else.

The sword tip nudges forward, a quick and dangerous jab, much too close for comfort, “careful.” The voice is raspy, worn and thin, hissing out from beneath the hood.

He freezes, feeling his muscles tense without permission, body still, apart from the desperate, pained beat of his panicking heart.

The sword edge dips, shaking, shifting, dangerously unsteady in a nervous hand, “careful now.” The words wanted to be threatening, dangerous, but a slight wobble gave them away. Revealed the tension underneath.

The man was nervous.

Shit.

Nerves, he knew, could easily give way to fear, and fear…

Fear is unpredictable. Fear is dangerous. So, fucking dangerous.

Fear gets a man run through for reaching for his coin purse, for a lean, a sound, for no reason at all.

Fear was deadly, but with skill, with the careful weaving of the right words it could be used. Dispersed, or failing that, twisted and turned around to attack its owner instead.

Silence however….

He swallows, notes the slight shake setting into his hands, ignores the clawing beast of his own fear, gnawing away in his chest.

A noise, Roach snorts from across the camp, tail flicking. The blade jumps arain, tip slipping up against his jaw. He feels the pain, blossoming out of the thin slice mark, feels the blood begin to well.

He sucks in a breath, shifts, as slowly as he can manage, a slow, careful hand tugging free his coin purse, tossing it out, away from the both of them, sends it skidding into the open space.

He expects the man to follow. He fucking hopes the man will follow. Or at least look, gaze flickering away if only for a moment, offer some form of opening. Instead, he simply inclines his head in a sharp nod, gesturing to someone else, someone currently unseen.

A second man steps out from the shadows, sliding free from beneath the trees. He’s shorter than his companion, slightly more muscular, clothes fitting slightly better on his frame. A crossbow dangles casually in one hand.

This one is calm, relaxed, lacking the tense energy of the other.

Roach snorts again, stomps, irritated. Sensing the tension in the air.

The man offers her a considering glance before scooping up the bag from the ground. Fuck he hopes they don’t hurt the horse.

Crossbow weighs Jaskier’s less than full coin purse in his hand, a concerning, fake frown sliding across his face. The man opens his coin purse, tipping the admittedly pathetic collection of coins into his hand, an uncomfortable, dangerous smile curving into his face.

He swallows again, nervous eyes flicking back and forth between the bastard with the crossbow and the sword at his neck.

“Got anything else?” the words come with a soft drawl, lazy and slow. As though they have all the time in the world.

His mind stutters, skipping through options. Part not wanting to do anything. Just sit still, wait and see what the fuckers do. Part wanting to lie, shake his head and pretend they have nothing else, or point them in the wrong direction.

The screaming panic in the corner of his mind wins out, he extends a shaking hand, roughly pointing towards their other bags. Crossbow follows the point, footsteps as lazy as his words were, calmly turning his back on the pair without concern.

Before him, the other man shifts with a nervous impatience, eyes flick away, just for a moment, following his companion’s step. 

Another glance, the sword dips down, towards his chest, shifted ever so slightly to the side, now loose in the man’s grip.

It strikes him, as his body pivots forward, moving purely on instincts and pushing up with surprising ease, that he’s really never been very good at making the best decisions in these situations.

His ribs scream out as firm shoulder smashes into a bony chest, the man crumpling with surprising ease. Still, to be sure he swings a fist up, feels it strike a face, feels flesh and bone protest under the force.

The man collapses with a weak cry.

He hears the other move, an angry shout, rapid steps towards him, and, not wasting time to look, he runs.

He slides into the trees, dodging between them, hoping for cover. Vision narrows, world shrinking to a thin strip of view, to the deafening beat of his heart thudding in his ears.

He runs.

There isn’t time to think, muscles straining, moving blindly forward.

Scrabbling across the rough forest floor, half mind enough to keep an ear out, almost surprised he can’t hear anything. No sounds of pursuit.

All it takes is an uneven step. Foot slipping against a rock, earth crumpling beneath him, a root catches on his foot, ankle smashing into wood.

A broken, scratchy cry tugs free from his lips. Rough and course and broken. He’s almost more surprised by the sound then the pain.

The twist of skin, bone clicking agonisingly.

He hits the ground with a heavy thud, hands sliding against the ground. Momentum pushing forward, body folding over, smashing into the dirt, breath knocked free from his lungs.

He gasps. Gags. He rolls over onto his back, finds himself lying, panting, in the dirt, leaves tangled in his hair.

His ankle throbs. Already aching.

He sucks in a breath, ears straining, surprised by the soft silence surrounding him. The huff of his breath, hot and heavy, chest heaving. The quiet sound of the forest around him, soft shift of leaves, the rustle of grass stalks tickling his ears.

He hadn’t expected it.

He was prepared for further chaos.

The thundering footsteps of a pursuer. Man surely at least half-way on top of him by now.

But instead he receives silence. A moment of soft quiet stillness. A chance to breath.

He can’t help but wonder how long it will last.


	10. Pain

He’s not sure how long it has been.

A while. A while lying in the soft, cold earth. Long enough the sun had shifted in the sky, slipped lower, threatening that if he stays too long it might soon slip into darkness. Leave him worse off then he already is.

He should move. He knows it. Knows the smart thing would be to roll over, dust himself off. Ask an aching foot to pull itself together long enough for him to get back to camp.

Hope Geralt had returned.

Or at the very least their unexpected guests had decided to move on.

He doesn’t.

Doesn’t want to move. To deal with the pain of it. The effort. The risk, of encountering unfriendly faces once more…

Easier just to stay there. Lying in the dirt. Not bothering to exist for the time being.

“Jaskier!”

Evidently the universe had other ideas.

Geralt’s voice is loud. Panicked. A concerning level of tension running through the word. Sounding just a touch too far away for comfort.

“Jaskier!”

He opens his mouth to respond, offering a wheezing, silent laugh when he realises his mistake, pressing a dirty hand to the side of his face.

He huffs in a breath, half choking on spit, suddenly hit by a suffocating wave of emotions. 

It crashes into him like a brick wall.

The exhaustion, carried deep in his bones, adrenaline seeping out, leaving him empty.

The pain, the literal ache of tired and worn muscles. Straining bones. The throb of his ankle, the scratch of his throat.

The pain, in his chest. in his heart. Lacking any physical cause but somehow seeming just as real.

The sorrow. Gods, the sorrow.

The sorrow and the fear.

Sorrow and fear that coated his skin. Sticky, gummy sorrow he had done his best to ignore. To put aside, not let himself feel it. Not let him experience it, consider the terrifying possibilities. 

But now…

It overwhelms him, so suddenly. Dry choked laughs turn to sobs, tears welling in his eyes.

Chest torn open and raw, pain exploding out of him, suddenly struggling to breath.

He throws back his head, hard against the firm ground, and _screams._

It is a scream.

A broken, bloody sound.

Rough. Dry, cracked and messy and terrible. Harsh and agonised.

It is the cry of a wounded animal. A broken, desperate beast, screaming for release.

His throat burns at the effort. Rubbed raw, cracked and pained.

The metallic taste of blood coats his tongue, warm and sharp and overwhelming.

He screams, putting every goddamn thing he has behind the move, behind the sound. Head driven back against the ground, hands clawing desperately, digging for release.

His throat cracks, broken sound eaten by a bloody, beaten throat, coming out dry and silent, not that this stops him.

Lungs dragging in air, smashing it through his chest before shoving it back out, hot and angry.

“Jaskier!”

Heavy hands cup the side of his face, strong and firm and warm. He gasps, choking on air, struggling to stop the sobs.

He’s shaking, he realises, lain prone, one hand clutching at his chest, fingers clawing in as though to rip it open, force more air in, release the pain. The other is buried in the ground, dragging up dirt and grit.

He sucks in a breath, air hissing through half clenched teeth. It works. Helps. His breath slowly calms, shifts from quick panicked sobs to slow, steady movements, only disturbed the occasional hitch or hiccup. 

Tears sting at his eyes, dripping messily down the side of his face, almost burning as they go.

He sighs, chest heaving, finally coming back to himself. He knocks the pressing hands away, taking another deep breath, feeling his chest expand. Feeling it move, strong and steady, no longer blocked and choked with pain.

He sits up best he can, head slumped forward, tears still slowly dripping, running down his chin. Some hit the cut on his jaw, stinging as they mix with his blood.

Before him Geralt shifts with a nervous energy, an unsure hand hovering inches from Jaskier’s back.

He shutters, a final sob hitting hard, ripping its way through his chest with cruel violence. Rubs the tears from his eyes best he can, almost smearing dirt in them instead, face stinging and messy.

He gulps. Feeling drained, gods so drained and empty.

He snorts, accepts the offered hand, helping him to his feet, sniffs in a useless attempt to stop more fluid from dripping free from his nose, adding to everything else. He almost wants to laugh at it, suddenly hit by how ridiculous he can only imagine he looks.

He offers Geralt a messy, lopsided smile, feeling tired but… lighter. Perhaps being empty isn’t so bad after all. The weight of sorrow seemed to have lifted almost, seeped out in messy tears and gasping sobs, leaving him free to breath.

So, he does, pulling in chest fulls of air, ignoring the burn, the tug of muscles. If anything, marvelling at the feeling, the shift of his body, the firm touch of the ground. Centring him. Reminding him he is alive. He exists, here and now, he exists and is real and alive and breathing.

He feels the weight of a heavy hand on his shoulder, strong and comforting. He turns to face Geralt, catching the Witcher’s eye.

Geralt hums, a soft sound he almost wants to call affectionate. The man hesitates, an unsure hand moving to swipe a thumb over the corner of Jaskier’s chin, coming away stained red and vibrant.

He watches as Geralt examines the blood for a quiet moment, breath caught in his throat.

Geralt turns his thumb, examining the streak of red, stark against his pale skin.

It hits him so suddenly.

He wants to tip forward, press his bloody, messy lips against Geralt’s. Feel the warmth of the Witcher’s skin, sharing a soft breath, hand curled in the man’s shirt, pressing up firm and solid-

Geralt smears the blood between his fingers, wiping it away.

He swallows, holding back a shutter, trying to shake away the thought.

Geralt finally looks up, meeting his eyes again, face so painfully open for a second before it closes, the usual calm, cold mask sliding back into place.

“Are you okay?” the words are gruff, probably rougher than Geralt intended, the sound catching in the man’s throat.

He nods, not knowing what else he could do.

Geralt gets them back to camp with an enviable ease.

Neither of them comment on the fresh splattering of blood, the dark trail leading from camp, slowly seeping away into the dirt.

He breathes a sigh of relief seeing Roach still stood across the camp, tail swishing lazily, seemingly unperturbed with whatever had happened in his absence.

He rolls tired shoulders, suddenly wanting rest.

He just wants to collapse onto his bedroll. Avoid facing Geralt any longer, let sleep ease away the stresses of the day, the many many stresses of the day. 

Geralt doesn’t let him though, doesn’t let him collapse face first, curl up under a blanket, safe and sheltered from the rest of the world.

Instead Geralt nudges him down to sit comfortably on the ground, offering a comforting squeeze to his shoulder before moving to grab one of their dropped bags.

Geralt settles down beside him, digging free a clean cloth. Geralt hesitates, hand hovering for a moment before moving to wipe away the mess of tears, dirt, and blood.

A slow, messy process, dirt clinging to his cheeks, dried tears smeared across his face.

He sighs, a heavy, exhausted huff, hearing Geralt grunt in quiet agreement.

A soft hand nudges his face up, letting Geralt see the cut on his chin, clean it out careful and gentle. 

“Are you hurt?” Geralt’s voice is soft, surprisingly gentle.

He shakes his head. He is fine, his jaw stings, his chest still burns, muscles sore and overworked, his ankle throbs lightly, but he is fine. His chest will settle, skin will scab and reform, his ankle strong enough to carry him back home, not broken if nothing else.

Geralt hums, he’s not sure if the Witcher is convinced, but seems to be accepting his answer if nothing else. The soft cloth presses back against his jaw, catching a welled pool of blood before it drops, wiping it clean.

It’s… nice.

Geralt’s hand slowly trails lower, a rough thumb lightly ghosting over the hot, fragile skin of his throat, resting uneasy and delicate against it. “You…” Geralt trails off, gaze flicking away, catching his words with a huff, clearly unsure. “You… scared me today Jask.”

Geralt swallows, licks his lips, words coming slow and tense.

“You were gone and then… that sound…”

Geralt shutters, eyes close for a second, face creased into an almost pained frown. “I thought something had happened.”

He grabs the Witcher’s hand, the one not hovering at his throat and squeezes tight. Needing to reassure the man. Let him know he is still here, he is fine. He presses down as hard as he can, knowing he is at no risk of harming Geralt, tears choked in the back of his throat, mouth dropped open, shifting uncomfortable and useless in the silent search for comforting words.

The sound that pulls itself is rough and hoarse and barely above the faintest of whispers. Dragged from a bloody and cracked throat that truly didn’t deserve any more abuse then it had already received today.

“-eralt.”

Geralt’s eyes flick up at the sound, face unreadable beyond a hint of surprise.

He opens his mouth to try again, try more, see if the sound can even just be replicated, but Geralt’s voice stops him, “don’t- don’t hurt yourself.”

He huffs. Wanting to fight, to try and succeed and prove he can _dammit_.

But he is tired, and sore and aching.

So he doesn’t. He offers Geralt’s hand another squeeze, fingers pressing tight.

He pulls away, and Geralt lets him.

He busies himself, gathering the mess of writing supplies, paper and ink left scattered in the dirt when he ran. Salvaging what he can and returning it to its place.

Geralt watches him move, the weight of the Witcher’s gaze heavy on his back.

He finds his lute, knocked to the side of the tree, nervous hands run along smooth wood, checking for cracks and damages. Praying he doesn’t find any.

His heart jumping to his throat at the sight of the hairline crack in its side.

It is small, unnoticeable from a distance, and not enough to affect the music in anyway. And yet he can’t stop worried fingers running over the injury, as though feeling the breakage in his chest.

He presses the instrument against him, cradled soft against his chest for a moment, feeling the familiar, safe weight of it, heavy against his body. Tries to fight back down the renewed panic.

Remind himself it will be okay.

Geralt manages to scrounge up something of a meal for them, leftover dried meats that are still to harsh for him to manage, as well as a scattering of berries collected the day before. Those he can eat, crushed between his teeth, letting warm, sharp juice run down his throat.

There is no conversation over dinner this day. No cut off secrets or stories from Geralt, only contemplative silence.

He is much too tired to mind. 

Geralt finally finds his words again after the meal, in the breath between eating and rest, Jaskier not bothering to have stood up yet, moved to finally curl up on his bedroll.

“Jaskier.” The Witcher’s voice startles him. it feels… heavy, rough, disrupting his moment of breath. not that he truly minds.

He collects himself. Looks over to find his coin purse held out towards him, loose in Geralt’s grip.

He takes it. Doesn’t think to comment on the added weight. It’s not like scattered bloodstains will have any way to claim back stolen coins.

He assumes that will be it, conversation finished for the day.

But once again, Geralt manages to surprise him.

“I’m glad your okay.” The words are quiet, but unmistakable in the still evening air. He looks up, but Geralt doesn’t meet his eye, gaze fixed on the trees instead.

After a long moment Geralt finally looks at him, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away again, “get some rest.”

He nods, that he can do. He moves, settles in for the night, hoping exhaustion will outweigh nerves, let him get some sleep.

Geralt doesn’t follow, doesn’t settle, the Witcher choosing instead to stay sat beside the dwindling fire, staring out into the trees, hand on his blade, clearly no longer trusting the woods around them.

Not that he blames him.

He won’t be surprised if Geralt stays there for the rest of the night.


	11. Put some effort in

His night is restless, spent only half asleep, part of his brain determinedly staying awake, listening out for any sound. Every time he tugs flickering eyes fully open, blinks enough to bring it into focus, he finds Geralt still seated beside the smouldering embers, staring out into the trees.

He rises early.

Moving at first light. No longer willing to feign sleep any longer, ready to leave this place. Leave behind the cold splattering of blood, left to disperse back into the earth.

He tries not think about yesterday. His ankle has settled, calmed except for the occasional twinge. The cut on his chin already scabbed and closing. Body left with nothing more than depressingly familiar aches and pains. 

He tries not think about how he had felt. Push back down the panic and pain and sorrow. Tuck it all away for another day.

Tries not to think about the other feelings either.

About the light in Geralt’s eye, the softness behind harsh eyes. The gentle touch of rough skin against his own…

He swallows. Ignores the tugging in his chest.

It won’t do to dwell on what could never be.

He has other things to focus on.

His throat is sore. Cracked and aching, but… shifted slightly. As though a seal had been removed, the cracked bones now remembered how to move. To shift and exist and do more than be in pain.

It is by no means good. A torn throat not able to manage anything more than a weak whisper, if even that. More the suggestion of sound rather than anything solid.

But… he can almost, just almost manage that now. Manage the suggestion of noise, of words, bones moving as he wants, listening and changing under his command.

Air pulling through his chest, sliding between his lips, in a rough, silent whisper.

Geralt is… uneasy with it. offering pointed stares and murmurs about _overdoing_ it.

And in retrospect it may have been wiser to listen. By the afternoon, his body had clearly had enough. Throat pained and dry, unable to manage even the ghost of a word anymore. Unable to shift and move as he wants, swollen up and stiff once again.

Geralt grumbles at that too. He can feel the Witcher’s stare, judging and heavy.

Geralt grumbles for the rest of the day. Fussing over him at dinner, checking his wounds, muttering irritably to himself. Something about blood, and pain and stupidity.

He doesn’t catch the words. Doesn’t care to listen too hard.

He writes that evening.

A letter. It started as a letter, but quickly became poetry, spilling out, onto the page. Descriptions of stark white hair, glinting in the sunlight, twinkling bright eyes, friendly and kind despite their attempt to be harsh. Words too clear in meaning and desire. too exact, too explicit to be allowed.

He burns the pages.

And writes it again. Somehow even more direct then the last.

He can’t bring himself to burn this one.

So instead it gets tucked away, hidden with messy song lyrics and unfinished stories.

He tries again.

Not sure why but needing… something.

Needing something to be said, something to fell in the gaps. Push back the stifling silence that still surrounds them. Sticking to his skin, thick and suffocating.

He needs something.

He writes ‘thank you,’ and crosses it out. Writes it again. Unsure of what else to say. Hoping the words will be enough to capture everything he means.

He hands it to the Witcher before he has time to think about it. time to question the decision.

Geralt seems surprised. Confused by the piece of paper, hurriedly thrust in his direction, offering no more than a shapeless grunt and a concerned stare in answer as he considers the scrawl of ink.

Still, as he watches Geralt carefully folds it up, tucking it away into a pocket with surprising care, he can’t help but think at least some of the meaning must have made it across to the Witcher.

They don’t address it further.

He’s not sure what ‘it’ is.

He is starting to think it may be simpler to drown under the weight of everything than force a conversation.

Even with these new cracks and whispers, hints of words, he can’t help feeling like he is drowning. In silence, in the deep, open space between them.

The space shrinks sometimes. Almost, on occasion, seeming as though it may be enough to snap shut, almost… in the small smiles over a burning fire, the brush of Geralt’s hand against his, soft and real. The painful but gentle touch to his wounds, the soft words, breathed out, bridging over the gap.

But just as quickly it seems to widen, into a gulf, filled with harsh frowns and unspoken criticisms. The sometimes spoken criticisms. The harsh snap at him for being carless. The sharp retort when he stumbles, foot slipping on a rock, mind somewhere else. 

Forcing the space wider. Forcing open the cracks.

Cracks he used to fill with words, plaster over and make right.

Now left open, threatening to tear, overbalance and send him sinking down into the deep empty space it leaves.

He wishes he was less frightened by it. He wishes he had more hope. He wishes a broken body would heal faster, fix the damn wounds already. Let his life return as it was.

He wishes…

He tries not to waste time wishing.

It rains the next day. The world threatening to make his metaphorical drowning real. The clouds come over them quickly, a bright blue morning sky quickly darkening. Covered in an endless blanket of grey.

It is cold.

Cold and heavy. Drops fall fast and sharp. Stabbing into exposed flesh. Quickly sinking through layers, overwhelming what little protection he had, to plaster themselves to his skin.

It sticks to him, coated in water, cold and heavy.

Dripping down his face, slow and lazy, gathering on the end of his nose, sticking to his lashes, half blinding him as it drops into desperately blinking eyes.

Geralt fares no better, the Witcher acting as through the weather does nothing to affect him, but quickly coming to look like a drowned rat himself. An angry, stubborn drowned rat, irritably flicking water from his eyes. 

It clumps in Geralt’s hair, plastering strands against his face, running in little streams down the man’s back.

He wonders how he looks.

Likely not much better, hair sticking to his face, fighting his attempts to slick it back. Skin clammy and cold, numb to the sharp strike of rain against it.

His toes are cold. Water soaked through worn boots, collecting in the toe. His socks are wet, sliding against his skin to bunch together uncomfortably.

His toes are freezing.

Painfully freezing, borderline numb.

Fingers are numb, shoved into armpits in an attempt to maintain some level of feeling. Fight off the shivers.

Existing wounds react to the rain as well, agitated and angry with the cold. Cuts and aches worsened.

His throat burns.

Hot. Painful.

His breath comes with a wheeze. A tug in his side. a pulling, twisting pain.

The ground below them reacts as well. Dirt slowly being churned up into mud.

There is no fire that evening.

They spend the night huddled together, hidden under the trees, listening to the ever shifting downpour and watching the rain splatter down from above, winding through the leaves to find them all the same.

The rain doesn’t stop till the next morning.

He tries not to worry when the wheeze continues on till dinner.

It takes another day to get to the next town over.

Another town, different yet somehow exactly the same as the last.

Another inn, same as the last. A stable for Roach, just as expected.

It is bigger, if nothing else. Bigger and busier, more alive.

Big enough to have a physician.

She’s a short woman, well rounded in the middle with an encouragingly friendly face.

He doesn’t much like the frown she develops when thick fingers prod at his neck, carefully running along muscles and bones.

Then she hums and he decides he is fucked.

“It could,” she starts with a pointed stare, peering at him over the rim of her ornate oval glasses, “be worse.”

The stare does enough to voice the fact it could also be much better. 

Not that she leaves it there, mind you.

It has been a while since he received a proper telling off.

The word ‘rest’ is mentioned a fair number of times. As is ‘sleep’ and ‘overexertion.’ She informs them, that in her firm medical opinion, it is unwise for a man suffering from a number of sever injuries to set off into the forest for days at a time.

Apparently sleeping rough is bad for recovery. As are long, gruelling daily walks. Particularly in the rain.

Geralt seems to take it worse than him, shifting uncomfortably, hands clasped behind him. Like a little boy receiving a scolding. It’s almost amusing to watch, the big scary Witcher getting a proper talking to from a woman no more than half his size.

When all is said and done, he leaves with an odd smelling tea and strict instructions to get some actual rest, having been liberated of a percent of his coin.

Thankfully, they can now afford it.

Geralt is quiet as they leave. Not that that is unusual for him, although this form of quiet feels different from his usual silence. An uncomfortable silence, a frown plastered to his face, mind clearly at work. Not that he cares to share what it is working on.

They weave through uneven streets in quiet contemplation, retracing steps in search of the inn. It is still early in the afternoon, but he can see the wariness in Geralt’s shoulders, tense under an unseen weight.

He wonders whether Geralt will deal with it with avoidance or silence.

Will the man leave him, be it at the bar or tucked away in a room, disappearing back out under the guise of searching for work, or will he stay, huddled in a corner, pretending not to feel the tension in space between them.

He doesn’t get the chance to find out, a simple mistake, taking one street over from where they intended to be, and they discover the town is big enough to have an outdoor market.

They round a corner, still searching for the way back to where they started, and suddenly find themselves on the edge of an open and busy square.

It is a spread-out bustle of little stalls and shop openings.

Comfortably full, not crowded but well populated, people wandering through lazily, pausing on occasion to greet a familiar face or chat with a smiling shop keep.

And just like that all thoughts of rest are forgotten. Body awoken by a wave of excitement.

A bright buzz fills his veins.

Only slightly tinged by the staining sour taste of fear.


	12. A day out

He pushes forward before he has time to worry too much. Time to panic and let the fear set in further, overwhelm the excitement. He hears Geralt start to call out, call him back, seemingly catching himself before the words are fully formed.

Hears the Witcher huff, pushing to catch up with him, clearly not yet fully on board with this plan.

Not that he cares, he has no interest in curling up in some inn room, sad and alone when this is instead an option. He weaves through the people, just enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by others, enjoying being in a crowd.

He’s in no rush, ambling through, side stepping for anyone clearly in a hurry, letting himself soak in the sights and sounds as he goes.

The wondrous bustle of a well populated street, the aimless chatter filling the air, catching one off lines and parts of sentences, the rustle of bodies and bags, people pushing past, arms laden with shopping.

The air is sweet, the pleasant mix of fresh goods, ripe fruit and flowers. He breathes it in, the comforting smell of fresh baked bread curling into his chest and wrapping soft and warm around his heart.

Behind him Geralt grunts as a man only barely avoids running into the Witcher, an irritated frown painted on his face as he watches Jaskier wander.

He stops at a fruit stall, called over by the bright and exotic wares. He is tempted in by the sweet smell of strawberries, a truly tempting prospect, but in the end, he is swayed by other fruit, finally settling on a small punnet of blueberries.

The transaction is surprisingly painless, the shopkeeper in too much of a rush to chat, taking no notice of his lack of words as he pours his coin into her waiting palm. It feels… normal. He likes it.

He pops a ripe blueberry into his mouth as he weaves away from the stall, feels it burst against his tongue, wonderfully juicy and sweet.

Noting the lack of heavy footfall from behind him he turns, notices that Geralt had finally grown bored of trailing after him like a lost puppy. The Witcher had stopped at another stall a little way back, examining the leather work on display.

He takes a moment to study the man, standing at such a clear contrast to the domestic goings on around him. Unable to keep a light smile from playing on his lips at the sight.

Geralt’s shoulders are hunched ever so slightly, rounding down, softening the edges of his body to slot more comfortably into the crowd, let other patrons slide past with more ease.

White hair glittering in the warm soft sun, as streaked with dirt and mud as it is. They should call for a bath soon; he almost thinks he can spot a twig tangled up in the mess.

The light bounces off the Witcher’s clothes as well, dark cloth doing well to hide the grime he is sure covers the rest of Geralt as well. The rich black fabric standing at a clear contrast to the light and dusty colours of the crowd. Unusual on its own to draw a considering glance or two, something the obvious sword strapped to the back likely doesn’t help with either.

Not that he is in a place to critique one for purposefully dressing to stand out. Even without his lute, left safely behind in their rented room, his preference for overly colourful clothing proves more than enough to also turn a head or two, catch a twinkling eye as they wander past.

Geralt’s face is folded into a considering frown, politely examining an item the shop-keep excitedly pushed into his hands, offering a polite smile as the man chatters on about the stitching. Geralt’s face is soft, relaxed for once, and comfortably open.

His heart shifts at the sight, fluttering ever so slightly, warm in his chest. He has always loved these little moments, the moments where Geralt’s carefully crafted annoyance falls aside, letting softer emotions bleed in from beneath the mask.

A man bumps his shoulder, not unkindly, but merely accidently pressing by too close. It startles him, finally breaking his gaze back away from Geralt, reminding him of the sprawling crowd around him.

He glances back, Geralt is still caught in conversation with the shopkeeper, managing to tear his gaze away for a second while the man searches for something else to hand him, nervous view flickering over, scanning the crowd before meeting Jaskier’s stare.

He offers a half smile, an acknowledging nod, receiving one in return from Geralt. Watching the soft smile slowly unfold from Geralt’s lips.

Then the shopkeeper re-emerges, pushing another bag into Geralt’s hands, dragging the Witcher back into conversation. He pops another blueberry into his mouth, turning to wander on further, see what else the market has to offer.

He trails past a few more fruit stalls, a baker selling sweet buns, air sweet with sugar and syrup, another selling a wide collection of pies, from bright fruit tarts to thick meat pies.

He passes a florist, pausing to sniff the sweet honeysuckles before moving on.

Nothing else in particular manages to catch his eye for a time, simply wandering aimlessly through the space, finding his way to the edges on occasion, taking a moment to breath, making sure he doesn’t get overwhelmed.

Breath caught he wanders back through, keeping a vague eye out for Geralt, but not yet properly searching for him.

He finally stops again by a beekeeper, a cheery older man with a curly white moustache, lazy bee’s flitter around the stall, slow and fat, on occasion bumping into the side of the stall keeper’s head, or landing carefully in his hair.

They trail after the man, a parade of tiny flying fuzz balls, soft and friendly.

The beekeeper offers him a friendly smile, a cheery hello when he pauses to examine the stalls wares. The man chatters away in some unknown tongue, he does not know the words, but the tone is wonderfully inviting, and he can tell from the man’s face the beekeeper expects no answer.

After a moment, the man hands over a stick of honey for him to try, gently battering away the odd, interested bee from getting to it first.

It tastes sweet, bright and floral. Soft as it slides down his throat.

The beekeeper watches with an excited interest, beaming when he smiles after finishing it. 

He leaves with a little pot of honey tucked away in a pocket, offering a parting wave to the lazy bees that tumble after him, nodding goodbye to the beekeeper, the man still chattering away in his unknown words, seemingly engaged in conversation with his buzzing companions.

He slips back into the crowd, munching on the rest of his blueberries, wandering back the way he came. He finally spots Geralt again at a wine stall, in the middle of making a purchase.

Geralt grumbles when he wanders over, sliding in beside the Witcher and rolling his eyes at the amount of wine Geralt had slotted in the nook of his arm.

Geralt grunts out something about it being cheaper than it would be at an inn, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at Jaskier licking the remains of dripping honey off his fingers, the sweetness mixing pleasantly with the stains of blueberry juice.

Geralt all but groans at the sight, clearly deciding it wiser not to ask, instead asking, “ready to go yet?”

He hums, head tipped back to soak in the remains of a fading evening sun before lazily nodding, yes, he has had his fun, he is ready to leave if that’s what Geralt wants.

Not that leaving is all that simple, it takes them a far few minutes to find their way back to where they had first entered the market, and time beyond that to retrace their steps, finally find where they had gone wrong the first time and rectify the mistake.

It is late by the time they find the way back to the inn door, most of the day had slipped away, afternoon spent wandering. The sun has only begun to dip away, ground bathed in a light, soft pink and yellow light, slowly starting to slip by into a dusty grey.

They push into the main room quietly, trying not to draw unnecessary attention as they slip past a group of early evening customers to their room in the back.

Geralt unlocks the heavy wood door, stepping aside to let him push in, set his spoils away and collapse face first onto his bed with a satisfied groan. A comfortable, well earned tiredness settling into his bones.

He rolls over, stretching out comfortably, taking in the room.

It is bigger than the last one, offering them space to breath. It is big enough to fit two beds, a wardrobe a desk and even table for their meals, should they choose to have any. There is a small fireplace to one side, in case they need the extra warmth.

Their stuff has already managed to become well scattered across the space, bags tossed in one corner, clothes somehow already in another, his notebook tossed haphazardly onto the desk, loose papers spilling out and threatening to tumble away, onto the floor.

His lute rests next to the bed, safe and sound. He thinks he may play tonight.

From across the room he hears Geralt shift, rustling restlessly.

He turns.

Just in time to catch the Witcher disappearing out of the room. Heavy door swinging sharply shut behind him.

Avoidance it is then.

Wonderful.


	13. Rest

The tea helps.

At least he thinks it does. It is odd, a strange, fruity thing, a touch too sickly sweet to be enjoyable. It sticks to his mouth, coating teeth and lingering there longer than it is welcome. But it is drinkable. So, drink it he does, gulping it down after dinner, a meal he assumes Geralt called up for him after vanishing from the room, and again the next morning.

It seems to help.

Sooth aching muscles. Relax them, let them fit more easily back into place. Let them move more easily, as they need to. As he needs them to.

Geralt watches him slowly sip it down over breakfast. Pretending not to, pretending he isn’t very clearly keeping track of the steady decrease of liquid, only relaxing when Jaskier drains the last drop of it.

He has to wonder if the Witcher realises how obvious he is at times. Wonders if the man thinks Jaskier doesn’t notice the stares.

Geralt had returned sometime in the night. Sometime after he had given up on waiting, settled down to sleep. He had half-woken up when Geralt pushed in, knocking open the door with surprising care, clearly trying to be quiet.

He had offered a quiet, mostly mumbled greeting, promptly falling back to sleep.

The Witcher confuses him sometimes. Trying to muddle out and understand the meaning of Geralt’s actions. Contrast the cold exterior Geralt puts on, the purposefully unkind words and determined claims he doesn’t care with the moments where the mask drops away, revealing something different.

The moments when the Witcher who claims to never get involved throws himself into harm's way to save the life of a stranger he’s never met before. There were other moments too, the soft smiles, the gentle touch, careful brush of a soft cloth against his face.

It can be hard to balance. Hard to fully understand the man.

Like now, try to understand the careful stare, the calculated glances, pretending he hadn’t just been watching closely as Jaskier gulped down the remains of his tea.

He stretches, feeling shoulders shift back into place, eyeing Geralt from across the table. The Witcher wants to say something. He can see it, see it on the man’s face, see the cogs turning as Geralt worked through whatever it is, mulling over sentences, slotting in the words.

He waits. He has gotten good at waiting. Gotten much better at patience, much better at waiting out the Witcher, wait out the time it takes to push Geralt to speak.

“I’m going head out soon,” nothing unusual so far, but there is something in the way Geralt pauses after the words, the hint a nervous look on his face, clearly not done speaking yet.

“Maybe you should… stay in today,”

Ah, there we go then.

Maybe he should just stay in the man says, spend the day locked away in some little room in the back of an inn. Kept contained, out of the way. Out of sight and out of mind, removed from the equation for a time.

He knows it isn’t meant like that, knows that almost definitely isn’t Geralt’s intent. Gods only know the Witcher is always too direct in his attempts to get rid of him, often simply settling on telling him to ‘fuck off.’ for this to be one. 

In his heart he knows it likely came from a place of concern, or, knowing Geralt, was somehow born out of some misplaced guilt about the whole thing.

But knowing that doesn’t shut up the nervous voice in the back of his head, crying out that Geralt thinks him weak, a burden that needs to be locked away.

That he is weak.

It pushes up a rage, burning through his veins, an anger he has to fight down, stop the urge to bite back, snap something unnecessarily dismissive and cruel in response. He has learnt to be more patient here too, more patient in responding, give emotions the time they need to settle, to organise and let him think.

He swallows down the anger, putting out the smouldering spark, threatening to alight within him. This does not need to be a fight. He will not make it one.

Instead he eyes Geralt for a moment, considering.

Thinking about it, it might not even be so bad to spend a day relaxing. It could be pleasant, to spend a day lazing around in bed, take the time to do nothing for a change. He could get some more sleep, work on forming the half formed scribbled currently filling his notebook into actual lyrics. And if by the afternoon he decides to go for a wander… well really, how is Geralt ever going to know?

He nods, willing to at least pretend to agree, he figures can always decide later if he actually sticks to the agreement.

Geralt’s eyes narrow at the movement, as though he can read Jaskier’s thoughts, see that this agreement may not be completely honest, but he does not call him on it, simply nodding back and agreeing with a gruff, “right. good.”

The doubtful stare remains right up until Geralt leaves the room, the Witcher shooting him odd stares out of the corner of his eye as he gets ready, as though ready for Jaskier to suddenly jump up and protest the entire idea.

But he does no more than raise an innocent eyebrow whenever he happens to catch Geralt’s eye, moving to rest on his bed, sprawled out in an overexaggerated show of relaxation and comfort. Geralt narrows his eyes at the act but doesn’t comment.

The Witcher takes his time leaving, seeming to find any excuse he can to linger on, taking his time getting dressed, needlessly fiddling with buttons and buckles, boot laces tied and untied a few times over by his count.

He makes no note of the Witcher’s aimless faffing, lazily letting his eyes drop shut, pretending not even notice Geralt’s obvious attempts to stall.

Eventually Geralt runs out of needless little tasks to finish up, finally heading out the door with a final concerned stare and parting nod towards the bed.

Geralt really doesn’t need to worry.

He is in no rush to leave.

Instead he lounges. He relaxes, lets himself doze off, almost surprised he manages to get in some sleep, but clearly his tired body welcomed the chance to rest more than he had expected.

He awakens again in the early afternoon, not quite able to believe he managed to sleep away most of the day. 

Even after all that sleep, he finds himself reluctant to get up, instead spending a while longer still stretched out in bed, mind wandering aimlessly, really only half awake. 

On reflection it probably is telling the extent to which his body takes to the chance to sleep.

Geralt likely would think so as well, he awakens in the evening from yet another nap to find Geralt watching him from the doorway, a… confusing muddle of emotions playing on the Witcher’s face. A level of smug satisfaction mixed with concern, and all blanketed by a familiar, unimpressed frown.

He nods in greeting, pulling himself up, determined to at least pretend to be awake if nothing else, but Geralt only waves him back down, tells him not to bother.

So he doesn’t.

He does manage to rouse himself properly for dinner, sitting cross legged on the bed, listening to Geralt’s occasional offerings of conversation, taking solace in his ability to hum back in response, offer the odd, “mm” or “ah.”

It almost feels like being able to add something to the conversation.

It almost feels like an actual conversation.

It’s not much, Gods know it is not much, but he will take what he can get.

He’s not sure if Geralt even notices.

Later in the evening he takes the time to scribble down some of the aimless thoughts that had wandered through his mind during the day, messily toss them out onto the page, stories losing a little of their magic the moment they hit the page.

He can feel the Witcher’s eyes on him as he writes, Geralt settled silently in front of the unlit fire, quietly drinking his way through his wine.

He almost worries he won’t be able to sleep that night. Worries he will be stuck, staring up at the bare ceiling, unable to rest, body finally ready to be awake.

But to his surprise he had no need to worry, eyes comfortably sliding back shut when he settles back down, curled up in his soft, warm bed.

It really was almost nice, to have had a day to himself, to rest and sleep and relax.

And he can’t deny it was probably helping. Just the next morning he feels better, body feeling… stronger. It is easier to get up, waking up ready for a day, rather than having force himself out of bed, aggressively convince a tired mind to pull itself together for another day.

An improvement, if he ever felt one.

It’s not all perfect, his throat is dry, cracked, painful when he compulsively swallows. But it is eased soon enough with a drink, feeling, dare he even consider it, possibly better than it had even just the day before.

His muscles do still ache. If anything, new, different muscles now ache as well, upset by the change in activities, trying to readjust themselves to this new, soft sleeping spot.

It seemed the aches will follow him no matter what he does.

If only the second day could have been as easy as the first. Although, still easier than the third, on the second he did at least make it to mid-afternoon before reaching maddening levels of boredom.

On the third day he feels as though he starts there, waking up already annoyed and irritated.

He sneaks downstairs for lunch, managing to almost chat with the innkeeper, throat succeeding at shaping a soft yes or no in answer to uninterested questions.

He drags himself back to the room afterwards, not desperate enough to wander out, risk encountering Geralt, have to explain himself.

He holds on hope Geralt will offer good news that evening, talk of a job to be completed, or better yet, whispers of something nearby, a village over or so. Something to give them a reason to move on. Set a time frame to his boredom.

But Geralt offers no such promise, no such suggestion of freedom. Even when he stares the man down, manages to drag out the word, “work?”

Geralt only grunts. Tells him not to worry about it. Tells him to focus on getting his rest.

For the first time in a matter of weeks he finds himself considering throwing something at the man’s head once again.


	14. tensions run high

**Geralt POV**

They can stay another night.

They can afford it.

They can afford another night, and perhaps another after that.

If he stretches, if he’s careful, if he holds off on any extra purchases, if he stays simple and modest in his needs, a light supper, lighter lunch if any…

They can afford it.

It’s fine.

He can manage the cost.

Gods only know he deserves the cost.

He shouldn’t have pushed them to leave so quickly. Hurried them out the door, onto the road, time and time again. Worrying about coin, about lives and monsters and blood.

Should have taken more notice to the life before him, the blood slowly oozing out of the _idiot_ walking beside him.

He should have let the man rest at the start.

Fuck.

The bloody half-dead idiot should have told him. should have let him know, argued back and refused to leave.

Gods only know the man fights him whenever else he can. Fights anyone or anything he can find it almost seems.

Sometimes too much.

Pushing himself on more than needed. Fighting against himself, breaking that god damn throat attempting to struggle out words long before he should.

It hurts sometimes to watch. To listen.

To hear those fragmented cracked whispers in the place of words and watch Jaskier determinedly fight for more, ignore the smell of blood in the air and push on further.

It never seemed like words worth fighting for, just the odd hum, an occasional yes or no, something that could have been communicated just as clearly without speaking.

He doesn’t quite understand the point.

But in truth he sometimes feels that he doesn’t quite understand Jaskier.

Sometimes he wishes he was better at reading the bard. Wishes he could know what was happening in that busy mind of his.

He felt like he had some idea before, or at least some way to gain an idea, let Jaskier ramble on long enough, ramble around and find his way to the point. If you wait long enough Jaskier always gets to some point, if you are willing to zone out the hours aimlessly chattering about the flowers, the weather, the rustle of wind through the leaves or, Gods, whatever is on the man’s mind, you do eventually find yourself somewhere real.

Let slip some offhand mention of how he actually feels, below the carefully placed performers mask, some idea of what he’s actually thinking.

It was only a matter of waiting.

But not anymore. Now all of that stays locked away from him, shut behind an unbreachable wall, and he is left struggling to understand the small scraps that manage to slip through.

the small, odd, confusing scraps.

His hand mindlessly reaches up to pat his pocket, the scrap of a word still curled up within in. it’s comforting, to feel its weight, insure it is still there. That small, messy scrawl of ink on paper, he unrolls it sometimes. Uncurls it carefully, gently, reads the words, running a soft finger over them, feeling the intent in the paper, before tucking it back away, as safe as he can keep it.

He wishes he was better at teasing apart it’s meaning. Understand everything the scrawl is supposed to say.

He sighs. His hand pats the pocket softly, comfortably, finds himself considering wandering back to the inn, back to their room. Settle down with a drink and listen to the messy scratch of ink on paper, the occasional, considering hum. 

It is on the early side, but he finds himself unable to find reason to stay away much longer. Feet taking him back to the inn without really thinking about it, seeing little reason not to go back inside.

He slides in quietly, past the innkeeper, mind focused on the drink waiting for him in the room in the back.

It should be simple, push into the small room, nod a greeting to Jaskier, a half-shaped smile. He would pour himself a drink, offer one to the bard, and let himself settle down for the evening.

It’s almost sickeningly domestic.

The door is locked.

He stands before it. Considering it. Considering what it means. The strong wood door swung strongly shut, lock clicked firmly in place. It hadn’t been locked the other times he got there.

It’s not that he doesn’t have a key, he does. But it hadn’t been locked before.

He has to search for the key, spends a few moments worrying he doesn’t have it on him before finally managing to find it deep in a pocket, tugging it free and clicking open the lock.

It almost feels as though it shouldn’t be a surprise when the door swings open to an empty room.

There’s nothing but a messy note, folded neatly and placed on the bed, he unfolds it to find two simple words, _‘gone out.’_

* * *

**Jaskier POV**

Geralt is in a mood.

A sour, spoilt mood.

He spots it the moment he enters the inn, slipping back in, half hoping Geralt hadn’t returned yet, half hoping he had. He spots the Witcher slotted in a corner, face carved into a decidedly unfriendly frown, all but glaring down at his ale as though it had personally offended him.

He shutters. Geralt is in a _mood_.

Now, it isn’t necessarily about him, he muses as he carefully weaves his way over to the table. It could just as easily be about something else, someone else, there’s really no need to jump to the worst conclusion.

Geralt doesn’t look up as he slides into the seat across from the man. Instead Geralt gulps down a mouthful of ale, seemingly purposefully avoiding his gaze.

It is probably not about something else then.

He sighs. He had a feeling that had Geralt returned before him the Witcher might be… less than pleased to find him wandering. Clearly the assumption had been true.

But he is adult. If he wants to leave a damn room then he can.

Geralt needs to be an adult and understand that. He’s not going to continue wasting his time curled up in some tiny inn room just because the Witcher has suddenly decided he is incredibly breakable.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand the concern. He does, at least he thinks he does, and sure, it had helped. The sleep, the rest.

But how long before that changes. Before it becomes a burden. Before _he_ becomes a burden. It is exhausting in its own right, to sit in a room all day, resting.

Mind tired, needing more. Feeling trapped in more way than one.

His lack of words already leaves him feeling isolated as is, he doesn’t need more limitations on top.

He has a life to live. A life to figure out how to live.

He stares Geralt down, or at least tries to. Vision trying to burrow through the thick ale mug. Hit the Witcher’s face, make his point.

It is somewhat depressingly ineffective.

Geralt lowers the glass, their eyes meeting for a moment before Geralt looks away.

He sighs again. Loudly, determinedly.

This at least elicits a response, Geralt grunts. A wordless, shapeless sound. 

He continues to stare. Considering. He has limited ability to be able to make or push a point.

A limited number of words… battles need to be picked as carefully as possible. Still, might as well try to use the few he can. “Work.”

Geralt grunts in place of answering.

A huff. Another irritated sigh. “ _Ger-alt_.” His voice cracks part way through the word. He does his best to ignore it.

He receives another grunt in response. Wonderful.

“Geralt.” It comes out half as a growl, low and gravely, ripped from a sore throat.

The Witcher sighs, finally looking back up at him, a weary look of exhaustion showing on his face. It turns his stomach slightly to see it. He opens his mouth, searching for a word, for the word, the simple sound he could make to…

To…

Fix this? Explain himself? Justify his right to exist and do what he wants. Push the point, change the topic, make an offhand quip about the this damn unbearable, unending silence. Tell Geralt about his day. Prattle on about the sweetness of the raspberries he bought, the brightness of the sun, filtering through the leaves… tell Geralt… tell Geralt anything.

God.

He doesn’t know.

Doesn’t even know what he wants to say.

He almost doesn’t want to have to say anything. Doesn’t want to need to say anything.

So he doesn’t.

He let’s his mouth snap shut. Pushes up with a final, tired huff. Ready to leave, if Geralt wants to stick with avoidance then avoidance it is.

“Jaskier.”

He pauses, at the word, glancing carefully over. Cautious, waiting... wanting…

“…We… we can leave tomorrow if you like.”

He sighs again. But this time it is a softer, lighter thing. A release of tension. He nods, slowly, carefully, suddenly almost unsure. Suddenly nervous.

A stressed hand taps against the table. Unsure of what to do next.

Geralt sighs, nods back, takes another swig of ale, eyes Jaskier’s irritating tapped out beat.

He stops the hand. Tucks it up, curled around his body instead. Nods again, manages to drag out a raspy, “good.”

Geralt grunts, setting down the mug with a heavy thump, glancing over at him once again, all but growling out a rough, “get some sleep, Jask.”

Another nod, gods that seems all he can do now.

He doesn’t point out the still early hour. Doesn’t bring up the need to pack. The fact he likely wont rest for some hours to come. He knows how to take a win when he gets one, turning to weave his way away from the table, the stifling, maddening air around the Witcher.

Pack away his bags, perhaps pack some of Geralt’s as well, set clean his clothes for the morning.

Make sure he is as ready as he can be to go in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having just... a time at the moment, but the ending of this is mostly mapped out/half written at this point so... mixed bag?


	15. learn to listen

They take it slow. Geralt takes it slow. Setting a possibly overly relaxed pace. An… ambling pace. It is almost maddening, especially with the way Geralt keeps shooting him nervous glances out of the corner of his eye every few moments, as though expecting him to suddenly collapse.

He does his best not to let it annoy him. To see the care in it and not let himself get irritated. Not needlessly speed up, nudge them on. Not that he believes it would actually work, Geralt likely simply refusing to go any quicker at all.

When Geralt offers to let him ride Roach he can’t hold back any longer, silently speeding up, easily managing to get away from Geralt at his slow, stagnant pace.

Geralt kicks Roach on, grumbling about ungrateful idiots under his breath.

He takes an hour before he takes Geralt up on the hour.

And only another hour till he realises his mistake, riding opening a new, different world of aches and pains, his back starting to protest from almost the moment his rear lands in the saddle.

In the end he decides as kind as the offer was, he would rather stick with the aches he knows then this brand-new world of pain.

They reach a compromise. He walks, on strong legs well accustomed to the task, feet aching but able. He allows Geralt to take his lute, carefully strapping the instalment to Roach’s back with as much care as he can manage, offering it a comforting pat once it’s nicely in place.

Tries not to worry about it as he goes.

Not that he really needs to worry, given the glacial pace they seem to be moving at.

They manage to cross some land, he’s not even sure how, it feels like they barely moved. But somehow the village disappeared from site, somehow the land slowly became overgrown once more, leaving them back amongst those familiar trees.

They don’t get anywhere close to the next town that day, hardly a surprise given the speed of their steps. A number of cold nights clearly lay ahead.

As he spends that night, lying on the rough ground, an errant twig he couldn’t find and dislodge digging into his back, ignoring the slight chill settling into his toes, listening to the shift of wind through the trees, the occasional odd animal call from the darkness; he can’t help but wonder if he should point out to Geralt that if they kept up this pace, it would take notably longer than needed to reach the next warm bed available.

He can imagine it now, a soft warm bed, thick, comfortable duvet, soft feather duvet tickling at his nose…

He almost has to wonder how much the leisurely pace will actually be worth it.

They walk a little quicker the next day. Still not reaching their normal pace, but quicker.

Perhaps Geralt had in fact reached the same conclusion as he had.

Geralt talks that day. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what inspires the conversation.

It isn’t constant, but Geralt’s stories never are. It is blocky and blunt, stopping and starting seemingly on a whim, in true Witcher fashion.

But slowly, as slow and steady as the fall of their feet against the well-worn ground, Geralt tells him a story.

Geralt tells him about the rain, about some unimportant summer storm, that happened years before he was even born. About a ghoul, one of many, indistinguishable from those that came before it, from those that came after. Another mindless monster killed in the dead of night.

He listens.

Listens to every word, tucks them away tight, path of it lain out in his mind, paved in the scattering of little details Geralt gradually lets slip.

He doesn’t know what it means.

He doesn’t know if he is supposed to know.

Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe it is just a story.

They stop on the bank of a river for lunch. Taking a moment to look out at the slow flowing water, knowing they will have to cross it soon. Once the food is done, wine drunk. They will have to make their way across the winding, slippery riverbed.

It is a quiet lunch, Geralt still slowly winding his way through the end of his tale, focusing on leaking boots and ripped fabric, a horse, he very nearly lost over the edge of a cliff.

He listens, watching Roach quietly enjoy her own meal, tail flicking lazily in the sun. He can’t help but wonder how many came before her, if Geralt remembers each one.

In the end the crossing is easy enough, Geralt lets him scramble his way up onto Roach’s back, to stay dry, not risk ruining well-worn boots any further, not risk letting ice water soak into his pants. The Witcher will grumble, as he always does. complain about water-soaked leather as he slogs his way across.

But he has learnt not to always listen to the grumbling. Or at least not listen to the words being said, focus instead on the meaning behind them.

He swings down too early on the other side, boots sinking into mud, Geralt chuckles at the mistake, but listens to his grumbling in turn.

Geralt’s story wanders off somewhere, lost and left in the cold, less ended and more trailed off and let go.

He finds he doesn’t mind. He is content to walk in the silence that afternoon, mind wandering, slowing turning over Geralt’s words, playing it through and slotting it into place, filling in the gaps.

It is a comfortable silence, a soft, friendly silence. One not calling for words. A friendly silence, wrapped round their shoulders like a soft blanket, hugging them close.

The silence stays with them, as they stop for the evening, coming to a stop in the smallest of clearings, a tiny circle of clear land, trees lining the edges, curled over and bending in to keep them safe.

He unpacks the bedding while Geralt grumbles over their rations, apparently not satisfied with the evening’s pickings. Lucky then, that it is still early, there is still time to search for more.

Geralt hesitates before leaving, offering an unsure, nervous glance towards Jaskier, not willing to voice his concerns but clearly holding them in his mind. He smiles at the Witcher, nods him on, hopes to communicate that he will be fine, he’s learnt his lesson, knows enough to take care this time.

Geralt offers a soft smile in return as he leaves, a slight, soft incline of the head, suggesting that yes, he does understand.

He watches Geralt disappear, out into the trees, listening to the heavy fall of footsteps slowly fade away. Lets himself sit back, breath in the air, feel the ground beneath him, the soft brush of wind rustling through the trees.

It is early yet, but the light is already slowly starting to slip away, the chill of the evening starting to step into the air.

He takes the time to argue up a fire, a small, modest thing, curling around the wood, only just starting to catch. Not that it is necessarily really needed yet, so a slow catch is no concern.

He settles down afterwards, curled up comfortably on his bedroll. He takes a moment, rolls his shoulders, head tilted, listening, considering, but nothing more than the shift of the forest reaches his ears.

He sighs, comfortable, tugs up his heavy instrument, already unstrapped from Roach’s back. He settles it comfortably in his lap, fingers stroking over the smooth wood, feeling its soft touch, not letting them worry over slight dents, the hint of a crack in well-loved wood.

It is such a familiar, friendly weight, placed so pleasantly against his chest.

Lazy, slow fingers stroke over the strings, plucking without much care, letting the music play as it wants to, trailing out and free from his fingertips. He hums along with it, slowly starting to find a tune, mould miss-match sounds into a song.

A soft song, something slow and gentle, curled carefully around his chest. Eyes slide shut, letting himself focus on the sound.

He finds the words for it much more easily than expected. Lyrics he had written some days before fitting with such ease to the tune, perfect and sweet. A rambling song, about love and heartache.

It is by no means good, voice as quiet as can be, raspy and weak. Lyrics far from perfect, nowhere near as well-crafted as they could be.

He uses overused metaphors to describe the longing of an aching chest. He rambles on about soft, shining white hair, bright glittering eyes, watching him closely, feeling as though they can stare into his very heart. 

It is messy, and weak, and yet somehow it is also quiet and soft and perfect, words meant for no one but himself to hear.

It trails on, not sure how to end it, lyrics slowly slipping away, becoming whispered husks of words. Fingers jump on the string, slipping down, fumbling the tune. He snorts at his own mistake, eyes flicking open, fingers trying to find their place again.

Stuttering and bouncing once again when his eyes land on the figure, clearly visible in the fading evening light. A body only a meter or so away, lent against a tree, listening.

It is the unmistakable silhouette of the Witcher.

Fuck.


	16. Remember to Breathe

He freezes. Brain completely blank, blood still in his veins. 

He considers running.

Not that there is much of anywhere to run to, only the tangled forest surrounding them on all sides. Still he considers it. Sat frozen except for the shake set in his fingers, moving, speeding up his arm, body tense and desperate.

He considers it, feeling his jaw clench, as though locking in place, teeth grinding.

He considers it…

Gods he could just run-

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice is rough, low and sweet, like the last soft burning embers from a fire. 

He swallows. Sucks in a sharp, shaking breath and swallows again. Eyes flick to the side still not completely convinced he shouldn’t just run for it. 

But maybe Geralt didn’t hear that much, maybe not enough to slot the pieces together, shape the bigger picture, maybe he is panicked for nothing.

Geralt takes a step forward, moving from the edges of the opening, stepping into the weak light of his lazy, slow burning fire. Yellow eyes glittering brightly in the light, burning.

He can’t read Geralt’s face. It looks as blank as his mind feels. Empty and void of emotion, completely shut down. It gives him nothing, that face, absolutely nothing, so still, so clear and cold. Any hint, any touch of emotion buried and locked away beneath a blank mask.

Something is happening in there though. He can tell. It shows, in the one remaining crack, visible in the eyes. The deep, churning thoughts, something was going on there.

Geralt takes another step forward, slow and calculated, hand half raised, as though he is edging towards a startled dog, trying not to spook it. Blood drips from the carcass of a rabbit held in Geralt’s other hand, drawing his eyes to where it splatters out, into the dirt, dribbling onto Geralt’s boots.

He feels it within his own blood, frozen yet churning. Heart beating frantically yet blood seemingly not pumping. Held still in his veins.

Geralt speaks again, “Jaskier…” the word is low, so low and gravely, it seems to pierce through his frozen flesh, sending a nervous, chilled shiver up his spine.

Geralt’s mouth hangs open, mask cracking only slightly under the pressure of his thought, clearly searching for something, words he can only assume.

“…what was that song?”

It is an out. It feels like an out. It _could_ be an out. He isn’t sure but it could be.

It has the possibility to become an out. Name a song, spin it as someone else’s words, someone else’s tale, someone else’s... love. Or he could admit the words are his own, spun out from his mind, but lie about the meaning. Play it off as a story, a guess at another’s feelings, another’s view of the world, not his own. Anything but his own.

Either way it would be a weak, messy lie, stumbled out over a stiff tongue, useless in terms of deceit. But perhaps Geralt would choose not to point out the holes. Perhaps the man means to give him an out, hopes he will take it, is ready to accept whatever stupid cover story he desperately chooses to give. 

He doesn’t take it. but then he doesn’t refuse it either. Instead, he does what he’s gotten very good at, he stays silent, lets no words spill from his lips, leaves his tongue lying heavy at the bottom of his mouth.

He swallows again instead. An instinctive, nervous move, as unhelpful as it is.

Geralt waits, offering a long, drawn out pause. Offering him ever so much time to speak.

Finally, Geralt sighs, a tired, drawn out huff of air, heavy and uncomfortable, gaze glancing down, around, before returning to Jaskier.

He shifts, uncomfortable. He is still holding his lute firmly in front of him, his arms moved to wrap around it, hold it strong against him, for safety, security. Marking and maintaining a clear barrier between them.

The silence feels heavy now. Damning.

Perhaps he should have lied. Perhaps he should have run.

Geralt sighs again, tongue darting out to lick his lips. He can’t help but think the Witcher seems… unbalanced.

“It was nice.”

That is definitely an out. Isn’t it? it must be. A distraction, an offering of something else, something ignoring the roots, the dug in deep meaning, driven down, cracking him open. Instead pushing them aside, letting them lay, hidden and buried to focus on pretty flower petals instead. It must be an out-

“It was nice…” Geralt repeats, words trailing off, floating up into the air with the smoke of the fire, only just brushing past him as they leave, so soft and gentle. He swallows. Watches Geralt’s gaze staring up, after his words, into the slowly fading sky, as though searching for the rest of the sentence amongst the suggestion of stars.

“did you… does…” Geralt huffs, mumbles out a tired, “fuck.” before continuing, “does it mean anything?”

_No, maybe, yes everything-_

He swallows. Gods why didn’t he just run?

His tongue finds an answer without his mind, voice rough, low but harsh, gods so harsh, “do you want it to?”

Geralt offers a laugh at that, a dry, unamused chuckle, “sometimes I wish I was better at understanding you, bard.”

He huffs, unsure how to respond to that. Sometimes he wishes he was better at understanding Geralt in turn. Sometimes he wishes he understood himself better as well.

“It doesn’t have to…” the words less trail off so much as end, rough voice not bothering to shape the end of the sentence, the final word coming out as no more than a dry, silent whisper.

Geralt snorts, an uncomfortable, almost cruel smile playing on the edges of his lips, “do you want it to mean nothing?” Geralt’s eyes look dark, even in the glittering firelight, he no longer feels like he can read them. Gods he wishes he could read them. Read Geralt, have just the slightest hint of what the Witcher is thinking.

He pauses. Breath caught in his throat, turning the words over in his mind. Considering the options. The possibilities… should he- can he…

Fuck.

Geralt’s gaze feels like it’s piercing into him. like it knows the answer already without him needing to give it.

He shakes his head. Slowly, gods so slowly, head flicking from side to side, breath still stuck in his throat, heat somehow not moving in his chest yet also beating out a loud, desperate, frantic cry. Beating almost agonisingly in his chest.

Geralt hums, takes another step forward, another, till he is standing directly in front of Jaskier. Rabbit dropped aside, momentarily forgotten, Geralt’s hand reaches out, hesitating, the slightest tremor only just visible, paused and considering for a moment. Decision reached, hesitation overcome, the Witcher moves the hand forward, carefully shifts the lute free from Jaskier’s lap, moving it to the side, removing the wall between them.

He lets it go, lets arms fall to the side, trying not to feel exposed.

He manages to tug in a breath, push down the hitch in his throat. ignore the feeling that he is suffocating, no space for air in his lungs, in the gap between bodies…

It feels like Geralt is towered over him, hanging down just above his head. He can’t look away, can’t yank his gaze free from the Witcher’s.

A hand lifts, slow, unsure, reaching up. Reaching out, towards the man above.

Geralt lowers, slowly, shrinking down the space even more, blocking out the air, coming to meet him. Till a hand meets Geralt’s firm chest. Holding him still. Holding him in place. Not pushing away but not letting him comfortably shift closer.

Geralt doesn’t push. Stopping, comfortable to remain if that is where Jaskier wants him.

He doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know what he can have. What is this? What is allowed?

Geralt simply hums again, pressing, not to push, but to hold firm, as though proving his presence there. Firm and solid right in front of him. Thumb rubs against rough fabric, feeling the scratch of it against his skin.

He lets the weight push it down, lets the hand shift, arm bend, letting Geralt in closer. Every moment half expecting Geralt to pull back. To laugh it all away and leave.

Instead the man presses on, until the Witcher is almost on top of him, the air between them feels impossibly thin and compressed, bodies almost pressed together.

He can see Geralt’s eyes. See the shine, the glitter, even in the shadowed dark. He wants to read them, read their meaning, ever so badly. Let them spill their secrets onto his waiting ears, let them tell him what they know, explain-

It is a slow kiss. Sudden, to start, a final push, final dart forward from Geralt, and somewhere along the way he thinks he lent forward too, meeting the man halfway, pressing soft lips together, messy and sweet.

He breathes it in, lungs suddenly finding air again. Swallowing down the deep smell of dirt and green, tinged with blood. The warmth, soft yet rough press of skin…

It’s Geralt who breaks it, sitting back slowly, pulling back but not away, still within Jaskier’s space, still sharing the same air. The Witcher hums, low and content. Low and comfortable, staring, considering, “alright?”

He nods, slow but sure. Mind still spinning, blank yet somehow so busy.

Geralt lifts a hand, cupping Jaskier’s face, soft but firm, thumb rubbing against the edge of Jaskier’s jaw. He presses into the touch, lightly, softly. Warm and comfortable. Ever so warm and comfortable. Body soft, relaxed in a way it often isn’t these days.

Geralt hums again, leaning back in, ever so slightly, not pushing, only suggesting. He presses up to meet him, gently, briefly, as sweet as the first time. Geralt’s hand shifts, to cup around the nape of his neck, soft and gentle.

Slowly sliding down, over his chest-

He pushes back, harder than he intends to. Hand pushed firm against Geralt’s chest. Geralt grunts at the weight, sits back further, on firm heels, shifting away in answer.

“No-” the word cracks out, tumbling between his lips, hand reaching back out towards Geralt. That wasn’t… he didn’t mean- he just- “slow.”

He shifts further back, sighs deep.

He just… he needs space to breath. the space to think. Mind still tumbling, still trying to catch up, understand and untangle the mess of thoughts spinning through it, comprehend the reality of the situation.

Time to let tired bones rest, throat burning from the efforts of the day, body sore.

It’s not a rejection. He doesn’t want it to be a rejection. He just needs the chance to step back into that quiet, still place he has become so familiar with in the past weeks. Let his mind take the time it needs to work things through.

Needs a chance to _breathe_.


	17. Small comforts

He wakes to find a firm arm, curled around his waist. Hand trailed against his stomach, light, not holding him tight so much as… resting there. Solid, present and comfortable.   
He isn’t entirely sure when that had happened.   
  
Geralt had given him the space he needed before dinner. Space to think, settled comfortably, lute somehow finding its way back into his lap. No overly revealing songs spill free this time, just aimless tunes, fingers bouncing against the strings, mindlessly plucking as his mind spins elsewhere.  
Throat much too sore to even bother a hum. Not that he needs one, content with the silence, allowing him to think. To replay moments before, try to figure out the corners, make them make sense, fit into place in his life.   
Unfocused eyes watching Geralt skin the rabbit, silent across the fire.

The silence remains over dinner, the two settled in close… closer than often common, although nowhere near as they had been only an hour or so before. Space still left around them, air to breathe.   
And yet somehow, over the evening that space shrinks. Shifting smaller and smaller. An errant hand on a shoulder when one stands, a lean in, a brush of a leg against another, shoulders almost knocking together. 

They separate again at bed. Settled apart but still somehow close, bedrolls unspeakably shifted closer together. A hand, trailing out, towards the other, not quiet touching, but a suggestion… a promise of possibility. 

And somehow in the night… he offers the hand a comforting pat before working on gently nudging it aside, the call of nature managing to outweigh the soft, warm comfort of another body pressed against him, comfortable shared warmth… weight new but ever so appealing.   
He manages to slide out somehow, still enough space lain between them to let him move. Wiggle his way free and stumble out into the dark, sun only just starting to peak up, over the edge of the land. 

He stumbles out of camp, almost tripping over roots hidden by the darkness. Holds himself up against a tree as he carefully relieves himself, eyes still mostly closed, not yet properly awake.   
He tucks himself away, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes.  
The world slightly lighter by then, not yet bright, but world almost visible. A strange, grey space filtered in around him. 

He retraces tired steps, all but stumbling the way back to camp, tired slow uneven steps managing to navigate their way back to the camp.  
Hoping he will find the Witcher still settled down, leave him able to just slide back under that strong arm, curl back up, return to sleep until the sun is higher in the sky, nudging irritably at his eyes. Not have to think about anything yet for another hour or so.

To his disappointment Geralt is half up when he returns. Yet despite his annoyance he can’t help but smile at the sight. Geralt looks… soft, sat up on his bedroll, blanket pooled around his waist, dressed in a loose undershirt, rubbing the kiss of sleep from his eyes with a tired yawn.  
Geralt offers him a slight smile as he ambles back over, a quiet, “morning,” 

He tries to respond, but throat dry from the night fails to produce much beyond a dry croak. Geralt snorts at the sound, earning him a less than impressed glare. Geralt only hums at the gaze, stretching up, shoulders clicking into place comfortably. 

They should talk. He knows they should.   
Should discuss last night. Discuss what this is, what it means. What it doesn’t mean.

But talking is hard still.   
Talking takes effort.

It is much simpler to remain in comfortable silence, tidy up as Geralt starts on breakfast. Take a seat beside the Witcher, knees knocking together as they tear into only almost stale bread, an egg magicked up from somewhere, fried hastily, yolk still wonderfully runny, dripping onto his fingers.  
He cleans it up as best he can, soaking up errant dribbles with the crumb of the bread. 

Geralt watches, nose curled, less than impressed with the mess he is making, he tosses Jaskier a waterskin to finish cleaning the remains of egg from his hand. He gulps half of it down first, soothing the remains of a dry, morning throat, clearing it with a gruff crack.   
Geralt raises a cautious eyebrow at that, before asking, “how’s the throat?”

He nods out a gruff, “okay,” clears his throat and manages a more audible, “better, it’s better.”  
Geralt hums, reaching over to carefully place a hand against Jaskier’s neck, fingertips pressing against the flesh ever so slightly, gentle bones shifting under the touch. He swallows, feels the press of the move, the comfortably firm touch. Comfortably firm weight.   
“Does it hurt?” Geralt asks, head tilting, considering, thumb rubbing a gentle line against Jaskier’s neck.

He shakes his head, pauses under Geralt’s stare, turns it into a rough, uneven shrug, likely a more honest answer, as uncomfortable as it often still is.   
Geralt hums at that, slight frown painted on his face, “pained but…better?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie, it is better. Much, much better, body decidedly, slowly, shifting back together.   
Geralt nods, hand offering a light, gentle squeeze, thumb rubbing a soft circle into Geralt’s skin, before the hand drops away.   
Geralt leans in, pressing a light kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s lips before sitting back, clearly moving to stand, push away.

“Geralt, ”he catches the edge of the Witcher’s sleeve before he can leave, cracks out a rough, “what…” waving a vague hand between them, not even completely sure what he is asking, “what is…”  
Geralt pauses at the move, at the question, sitting back down, looking… cautious, careful and considering. “What do you… want it to be?”

He hums, shrugs, shoulders lifting unnecessarily high, an overexaggerated showing of his uncertainty. This too, isn’t a lie. he doesn’t know, doesn’t know what he wants. He has… fantasies, impossible ideas but in terms of reality… he never expected to get even this far, how can he be expected to truly know what he wants? 

He wants… a soft bed, rich meats, sugary sweet buns and a feather pillow, unnecessarily expensive fabrics, stitched into the finest of clothes.   
He wants conversation, the ability to spill words easily from the edge of his tongue once more. He wants a throat that can sing again, to feel the love of a crowd, the excitement, the energy.   
He wants the press of Geralt’s lips on his own, the sweet, messy, bloody taste of the Witcher on his tongue. He wants more mornings spent with a warm hand on his hip, holding him close…

He darts forward, catching Geralt’s mouth once more. Geralt hums, he can feel the smile on Geralt’s lips, pressed against his own. “That,” Geralt mumbles out against Jaskier’s lips, “is not an actual answer.”  
He huffs a laugh out in answer, sitting back just enough to speak, “I want…” another useless shrug, hand tangling in Geralt’s shirt, “I want this.”

The smile grows on Geralt’s lips, Witcher leaning in for another chaste kiss, “good,” Geralt pushes in closer, nipping at Jaskier’s lip, “mmm- good.” 

He sighs in against the pressure, soft and gentle, all but sighs out a quiet, “I want to sing again.”  
He feels Geralt pause at that, freeze up for a second, breathe seemingly caught in his throat. Geralt pulls back, properly back, out of Jaskier’s space, hand raises once more, brushing against his throat, not pressing this time, just the soft suggestion of touch.   
Geralt sighs, a quiet whisper of a thing, “I want that too.”

He snorts, “careful Geralt, that’s almost a – compliment,” his voice grates over the last word, rough and cracked. He expects Geralt to laugh it off, tell him not to make assumptions, but instead the Witcher hums, murmurs out a soft, “I miss your voice, bard.”  
He can’t hide the smile at that, “you like my singing,”

Geralt snorts, “I didn’t say that.”  
“you do,” he sways forward, legs knocking together, “admit it.”  
Geralt groans, “don’t get greedy Jaskier,” a smile still playing on the man’s lips, he reaches over to brush a stray hair from Jaskier’s brow, smile… almost shifting, becoming a soft, private thing. 

He smiles back, soft and warm. He takes a moment to sit with the smile, sit with the warmth, quiet and comfortable. He lets Geralt move this time when he goes to stand, eyes following to watch as Geralt slowly starts to tidy, pack away their mess, comfortable and relaxed.   
He sits for a minute longer, still wrapped in soft warmth, reluctant to move.  
Not yet willing to give up this space of light comfort. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m posting this from my phone as, in true 2020 fashion, my laptop has died. So if any formatting is wonky, that’s why.


	18. Apple stew

They take it slow.

They seem to take everything slow. The morning, the day, the… whatever it is between them.

A lazy morning leads to a lazy, lavish, and probably too long lunch, a wonderfully shared relaxed air between them.

And yet they somehow still manage to cover good ground that day, energy high enough he can’t help but walk a little quicker, blood buzzing, a skip in the step. Half the time he finds himself trailing in front of Geralt, having to spin and wait for the Witcher to catch up.

It feels good, to move, to cover real ground, watch the world change around them. It feels good. Gives him a sense of accomplishment, feeds the spark in his veins, today is a good day to move.

It’s him who finds the meadow, bursting out into it, trees suddenly vanishing, giving way to an expanse of green. It’s an unexpected sight, a wild thing, overgrown by man’s standards with its almost waist high grass, filled with sweet flowers, only just in bloom.

It’s too big a space to be natural, someone must have cleared it once, taken the time to carve out this little space, remove the trees one by one, carefully shape it, maintain and use it, just to seemingly abandon it back to the woods.

He plunges in, pushing into the grass at a brutal speed, feeling it whip against his body, wind rustling through his hair as he runs. He makes it less than a third of the way in before his breath runs out, tired lungs not up to the task. Chest aching, but pleasantly, an ache that does more to remind you that you are alive then hurt. Body burning wonderfully.

He gasps, arms thrown up towards the sun, basking for a moment before he lets himself collapse, fall back into the wondrous long mess, rolling in the grass with a tired, breathless laugh.

The sound almost surprises him, with how real it sounds, how much of a true laugh he manages, even winded as he is.

The air is sweet from here, the sugary scent of wildflowers mixed wonderfully with the earthy smell of fresh grass. Strands tickling at his nose, tangling in his hair, fingers curled around the stalks.

His vision is narrowed, to the tall grass stalks surrounding him, the circle of sky in the middle, clear and blue, only hints of wispy white clouds.

He hears the crunch of footsteps, Geralt appearing in his little circle of sky, staring down with a fake glare. He snorts at the sight, and, hit by a sudden wave of bravery, pats the grass beside him, manages to choke out a rough, “join me.”

Geralt looks unimpressed at the suggestion, grumbling out complaints too quiet to catch, but does so, settling down awkwardly, annoyed frown refusing to leave his stern face.

It feels like it should be awkward within itself, lying there, shoulders knocking together, the slick grass pushing them to slide against each other. But somehow it is not. it is… comfortable, brief but comfortable.

Then Geralt knocks his hand against his and he can’t hold back the smile, hand knocking back, feeling the comfortable weight of Geralt’s presence. He twirls their fingers together, offers a soft squeeze, feels Geralt squeeze back. 

After a moment he plucks a flowering strand free, takes a risk and tilts over to tuck it behind Geralt’s ear, the move pushing them somehow closer together, him almost half on Geralt’s chest now. The Witcher snorts at the move but does not push him off.

He doesn’t miss the smile curling on the edges of Geralt’s lips.

Can’t resist leaning in, pressing his own softly against Geralt’s to feel the smile against his own, sweet and light. 

There is a snort from somewhere above. He rolls, finds that Roach, set free with an entire field to munch on, had somehow still managed to find them. Her unimpressed stare felt much less fake than Geralt’s had.

Geralt snorts at the sight, but shifts, climbing carefully to his feet before turning to help tug Jaskier up as well. He stands with a laugh, side pulling in, muscles sore but body happy.

Before they go Geralt plucks up a wildflower, a proper flower and not just flowering grass, and returns the favour, carefully tucking it behind Jaskier’s ear. He laughs at the move, laughs at the site of grass strands tangled in Geralt’s hair.

He collects up more flowers as they wind through the field, chaining them together, resting the finished product carefully on Roach’s head, not that it lasts more than a few moments before she shakes it off, choosing to eat it instead.

He doesn’t mind, he didn’t expect it to last any longer than it had.

A modest orchard runs along one side of the meadow, a scattering of fruit trees, not common to the area but growing well. He grabs an apple or two, only almost ripe, tucking it away in his bag for later.

The cabin is even more of a surprise then the meadow had been, nestled right on the edge of the space, almost back in the trees, in better shape then the meadow but clearly also no longer in use, vines claimed the porch, trees starting to encroach as close as they dare.

A well lies not too farther along, wooden cover still in place, keeping out the probing tree branches.

They push in quietly, door locked but easy to argue open, find the space inside surprisingly undisturbed. It is a modest little space, with only two rooms inside. Entering takes them into a small kitchen with a wash basin, cupboards stripped clean, and beyond they find an only marginally larger bedroom, centre of which lies the bed. 

A proper bed. Mattress and bedding and all. A bit musty, a bit small, pillow less stuffed than would be ideal, but a bed nonetheless.

He spins, shoots Geralt a hopeful look, half ready to hear the Witcher’s grumbled argument that they need to keep moving, can’t afford to stop so soon.

Geralt sighs, glancing out the window at the lazy afternoon sun, they have a few hours of daylight left, time to get farther if they want, but the prospect of a real bed…

Geralt offers a single curt, cut off nod, a gruff, “check the bed is actually usable,” before turning to go tend to Roach. They let her wander the meadow once freed from her burdens, eat as much of the sweet grass as she desires. 

He scours the cupboards, proving only slightly less empty as initially assumed. He manages to find a thankfully still sealed bottle of ale, tucked in a far corner. He pulls it free, pulls the cork out and gives it a slightly dubious sniff.

It smells fine.

Tastes fine too, for cheap alcohol, as much as it tastes like anything, mostly just burns on the way down.

Geralt watches doubtfully, snatching the bottle from him before he drains too much. He huffs, but doesn’t bother to complain, let Geralt take the fowl thing if he wants.

They manage to catch a small fire in kitchen’s fireplace, cabin coming with more than enough dry wood to keep it burning.

They heat some water from the well, wash the dirt from their hair, clean their faces. Not as good as a proper bath, but better than cleaning one’s hands with ice water from a flask. His fingers certainly appreciate the change.

They stew the apples in the end, eat them hot off the fire, sweet juices running down their chins, warm and sticky.

He wipes it off, licking his fingers clean, offering a messy grin to the Witcher.

The bed is softer than expected, tired mattress sinking under his weight. It is small, pushing bodies together out of necessity, not just will, shoulders knocking together when Geralt settles beside him with a contented groan.

He shifts, gives the man as much room as he can manage, glancing over to see Geralt’s eyes already starting to droop close.

He finds sleep harder to come by.

It… this…feels different. They have shared a bed on more than one occasion, comfortable with each other’s presence by now, and yet this still somehow feels… different.

Intimate in a way it never did before. He finds himself self-conscious of every shift, movement, of his breath, huffing out into the quiet room, unable to still an overthinking mind.

The rules are different now too. Where before they stuck to their own side, taking up only as much space as necessary, now…

Geralt throws a lazy arm over him, snuggled round his chest, a simple move, yet he can’t stop it from feeling like so much more.

He runs a hand down Geralt’s arm, fingers pausing on a long scare, a nasty, deep thing. He doesn’t know the story behind it, it existed before he came along. Possibly, for all he knows, before he was born.

Part of his mind can’t help but worry over it. what it feels like it means.

The reminder of their- of Geralt’s life. Of risk and danger and adventure.

An adventure he provided little to, even less while he can’t earn his own coin. How long could he really live as a bard who can’t sing? And even when it returns… it will be slow, gods everything was so slow. Only a song or so to begin, not enough to bring in much.

Who knows how long it would be until it was strong again.

Would Geralt tire of him before then?

Or perhaps he has it round the wrong way. Perhaps Geralt does truly enjoy the silence… dreads the moment his words return in strength, the moment he goes back to being able to prattle on, nudge the man with probing questions…

Perhaps that will be when the Witcher changes his mind.

At least he has some time still if that is the case.

Then Geralt turns, nuzzling into his shoulder, murmuring tired gibberish into his ear, and he lets himself forget it.

Lets him focus on the warmth of the bed, of the body pressed against him, the soft huff of Geralt’s breath against his cheek, wrapped up safe and warm.

He sleeps deep that night, undisturbed and dreamless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imma level with y'all, its mostly just fluff from here on out.


	19. sweet kisses

Time heals all wounds, or so they say.

What they don’t say is how slowly it takes. It is slow. gods so slow, so agonisingly slow.

But they heal.

Bruises fade, cuts shift to nothing more than the suggestion of a mark, gone completely in the best case, scarred over as lasting reminder in others.

Bones grow, mend and fix their own way as best they can. Muscles strengthen, remember how to move, learn the steps, the rules anew.

Wounds heal, and so too, does his throat.

Words flow back through his throat, rolling off his tongue once more, more costly than before, no longer free to use, each one adding to an old, settled ache. But his allowance increases every day, more words able to flow free before the aching burn returns.

And with the words, come the songs.

Slowly, gods so slow, he thought words had a cost, if he is not careful a song will rip open a tired, sore throat. Tear open healed injuries and stain his lips with blood once more, bright and red and burning.

But slowly, slowly he gains the strength to hold off the cost. His body remembers how to sing. How to hold a note without cracking, without fading into no more than a rough, soundless hiss.

It starts with one song, sung through, strong and proper. And then, in time, another, and then another.

Until, with patience, songs spill free from his lips almost as freely as his words.

Almost.

It is not perfect, muscles still aching if he pushes too hard, limits lower than he remembers them being.

He has to adjust, learn the new rules, learn what his body can do. What it can manage. Not quite as strong as it used to be, but not bad. Not bad at all.

And with song… with song comes the ability to perform.

He takes a lesson from time, starts slow here too. Only a few songs at first, in a quiet inn, somewhere half-empty, few enough people he can easily slip away after a melody or two, nod his goodbyes, collect a scattering of coin and sneak out to retire to bed.

The coin is slim, often barely even enough to pay for a meal, but then, it is hardly about the coin.

It is about so much more than the coin.

It is about the performance, the energy, that one, certain feeling you get, stood before a crowd, when you suddenly feel alive in a way you never have before.

It feels … right. Feels like he is back, and alive and _whole_.

But then he pushes to hard, pays for it in his words, voice gone for a day or two following.

Or maybe he just catches sight of a bill, feels the lacking weight of his coin purse, grow as it might after a song or too, yet still so light, and he can’t help but wonder if it should be about the coin after all.

Can’t help but wonder what he is doing to pull his weight, if new stories alone are really enough to count.

Not that Geralt ever mentions it.

And at the very least, there is little space to dwell on such thoughts, when settled in front of a crowd, heavy lute in hand, songs sung low and sweet. Words flow free, in time with the sweet notes.

On this night, the crowd is small, but if anything, that is a blessing. It lets him stay quiet and soft, play only to those before him, not worry about the grumpy stragglers across the room. let them enjoy their drinks in peace.

Interested patrons are free to wander closer at their own will, coming and going as they feel fit, enough staying that he never quite has to feel alone. Never quite feels useless, just enough loyal, listening ears to make it all worth it.

There is a scattering of applause when he finally rounds off his set, he has a set now, voice strong enough to carry through enough songs to make it worth it, assuming he takes care. Assuming he rests.

He earns a few friendly nods as he twists through the messy maze of tables, a comfortable pat on the back or two, some coin passing hands, fitting comfortably into his purse. Not as full as he would like, but better than before. Almost something. ~~Almost enough.~~

As he slides between the tables, he catches sight of Geralt seated at the back of the room, tucked near a corner, slowly sipping down a mug of ale. Geralt glances over when he slides into the chair across from him.

He nods, not bothering with a proper greeting, still comfortable with silence.

Still ignoring the heavy air he sometimes feels between them, hot and pressing with all that has yet to be said. All that maybe should be said. Some questions left not yet answered, even though he now has the words to ask them.

Geralt offers a hand and he takes it. Gives the fingers a tight squeeze, knowing he runs no risk of hurting the man. A comfortable touch, small as it is, one of many that seems to have slipped into their lives recently, slotted in so simply, alongside old, expected routines.

He still isn’t quite sure what this all is exactly. What the soft touch, the brush of skin, press of rough lips against his own… what it actually means. To Geralt. To him.

Part of him is still waiting for the day the words now once again gradually streaming from his lips break everything. But somehow… somehow that has not happened. Not yet anyway, but then his voice is still weak, there is still time to build the strength to ruin everything.

The fear of it holds him back from asking, from wondering what this is and what it means and… anything. Everything.

He hasn’t been with anyone else since the injury, and as far as he knows, neither had the Witcher. But if that was because of choice or because a lack in available willing partners… he would like to think it is the former but finds he can’t quite say he is sure.

He offers the hand before him another squeeze, suddenly tired, an uncomfortable heaviness settled on his shoulders. Geralt squeezes back, strong and firm. He tries not to notice the occasional intruding eye watching this exchange with uncomfortable interest. He will not let himself be bothered by such things.

He offers a tired nod, a quiet, pointless mumble about retiring early, and does his best to excuse himself, Geralt letting him go, without a fight.

Their room is cold. Fireplace laid bare, both having spent the day out, before returning to the inn. The space messier than they normally leave it, clothes somewhat tossed around, disorganised and unclean.

Unlike the Witcher, to leave clothing on the floor, left where it was removed, but he supposes Geralt had been somewhat distracted at the time of undressing, focused less on his shirt and more on Jaskier’s hands on his chest, fingertips dancing against the skin as they slowly trailed down, down, down…

He smiles to himself at the memory, moving to gather up the clothes, fold them as best he can, even if it was with nowhere near as much care as Geralt usually took with them.

In the process something slips free from a pocket, a slip of a thing, tiny well-worn scrap of paper. It slides across the floor, avoiding his fingertips when he grabs for it.

He finally catches up with it, fingers curling around the slip of paper, careful not to tear the well-worn parchment. He unfolds it slowly, half worried it will fall apart in his hands, delicate as it is. But the paper holds, soft, curled edges fold open, revealing a familiar scrawl of ink.

His heart seems to almost skip at the sight. The messy, rushed scribble of words, he had all but forgotten about the note, it felt like a lifetime ago, an old forgotten relic, written out by someone else, two little worlds, holding the meaning of the world, _thank you._

And yet, staring down at the ink, at the words, he finds the feeling behind it all still too familiar. The hopeless meaning he tried to force into such a scrap of words, unable to do anything else.

He is so lost in it for a moment that he almost doesn’t notice when Geralt steps into the room behind him, quiet in a way only the Witcher seems to be able to manage. Geralt slides up behind him, offering a light snort at the sight of the paper clasped in Jasker’s hands.

“You kept it?”

Geralt hums, “You gave it to me,” he slides a comfortable arm around Jaskier’s waist.

He presses back into the warmth, a slight frown touching his face, considering, “why did you keep it?”

Geralt’s head tilts, considering for a moment, “I…wanted the… reminder.” Geralt plucks the scrap from between his fingers, considering it for a moment, rolling it between his fingers before he crushes it easily in his hand. “not that I need it anymore,” Geralt murders out against his skin.

He tugs back from the press, the wandering lips, not willing to be distracted. “A reminder…”

Gerlat hums, lips still pressed against Jaskier’s skin.

“A reminder of what?”

Geralt sighs, “I don’t know Jaskier, it… it just felt important, I wanted to keep it. It doesn’t… it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“…did it mean anything?”

Geralt sighs again, heavy and deep, he pulls back, frowning. “What is this about?”

He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable, unsure of how much he wants to push, but unable to hold back. “What does… this mean?”

“What does what-”

He cuts Geralt off, waves a hand between them, “this, what does… what is this between us? What does it mean?”

Geralt pauses at that, stills uncomfortably, before him, “what does-” he cuts himself off with a dull laugh, “we did this already didn’t we?”

He shifts, it wasn’t an answer, the words doing nothing to calm his rocketing heartbeat.

Geralt groans at the sight, eyes flicking away for a moment, “what does- god, Jaskier, I lov- I… what doesn’t it mean… what - what does it mean to you?”

He wants to laugh at the question, to cry, instead he takes a deep breath, “I don’t know, I… sometimes I think it means everything, but then... I worry it means nothing. I worry this is all… born from a moment of pity for a broken man, neck cracked and helpless. And what if the words I now have again will break everything?”

Geralt jerks, head knocked to the side, an odd shutter, uncomfortable and strange. “This isn’t- there are no magic words you could say that will end this _Jasker_. Unless- unless you wanted to. I would respect your decision if- “

“-no. I don’t- Geralt-” he cuts himself off, takes a breath, a quick, desperate motion, “I don’t want to end this.”

“Good, good.” Geralt’s hands find their way back to his hips, nudging him round to face the Witcher, “I don’t want this to end either.” Geralt tugs him close, bodies pressed together comfortably, Witcher lent in close, to murmure into his ear, “do I really have to say it again bard? I love your voice bard, I love to hear you sing,” he pauses, “most of the time, don’t think to take advantage of that you little nucience. I love your voice; I would not leave you for it.”

He presses back at that, unable to resist biting back, “I knew it. Complain all you like; I knew that somewhere under there you liked my singing.”

Geralt snorts at that, but for once doesn’t argue beyond a teasing, “did you, bard?”

He smiles back, a hint of something curling in the edges of his lips, tugging the smile down ever so slightly.

Geralt pauses at that, staring at him, as though he can see the cogs in Jaskier’s head turning, “I will not leave you if you lose it either Jaskier,”

He chokes out a half-laugh, cutting off the sob suddenly blocking his throat. “You-” sentence choked off by the soft emotions welling in his chest. He does his best to swallow it down.

Geralt speaks for him, tugs him closer, “Jaskier, I won’t leave you unless you want me to. Unless you want this to end.”

He does laugh at that, pressing in, pressing their lips together, short and sweet, “I don’t want this to end.” He swallows around the ball in his throat, feeling it disband and fade away. He huffs out a soft breath, “I don’t want this to end.”

Geralt hums, low and warm and comfortable, “what do you want it to be, to mean, little bard?”

He pauses, mind whirling, spilling over, finally managing to stumble out an airy, “everything,”

Geralt smiles, small, sweet, “then everything is what it will mean.”

He almost wants to laugh at the statement, how ridiculous it is, stupid and poetic and idealistic. And yet how simple it sounds, spilling from Geralt’s lips. How true. He kisses the promise from them, it tasted sweet and sugary, bright on his tongue, he can’t help but press in harder, press in for more.

Lick the sugar from Geralt’s lips, the lingering taste of ale from the man’s mouth, so wonderfully acquainted with the flavour of Geralt.

Wanting to taste everything, touch everything, have it all.

And on Geralt’s word, he will have it.


	20. reflections

**GERALT POV**

Jaskier’s hair smells sweet. It almost always does, except of course, for when it smells of blood and dirt, the mess of a wild fight.

It is bright and floral, like whatever seemingly random collection of fancy scents Jaskier has chosen to pour into their bath water that week. The bard always seemed to somehow have a collection of them, small, fancy potions. Finicky things, much too expensive for him to care for, some that are simply too strong for his liking, burning at his nose.

This week’s one thankfully does not.

This week he thinks it was lavender. It is a light smell, faint but bright, pretty, in many ways. He almost likes it, not that he would ever admit that to the bard. Knowing better than to ever admit to enjoying such a thing. Such an admittance would not come without a cost.

He hums softly to himself, nuzzling in closer to Jaskier, the man half strewn across him as he is, head lazily sprawled in the Witcher’s chest, hair ticking Geralt’s nose, breath huffing out, soft and warm against his skin, Jaskier’s arm spread out wide, all but dangling over the edge of the bed.

It is… comfortable. Unexpectedly comfortable. He never would have thought he could have something so… soft, so _normal_. Normal and gentle, a part of a world he hadn’t been sure he could ever be part of.

But here it is. Here he is, curled up warm, warm and soft, bed not empty anymore.

Unexpected as it is, he will be damned if he doesn’t do all he can to keep it. 

Jaskier shifts against him, murmuring something in his sleep, all but drooling on the Witcher. He snorts at the sight. Toying with waking the man up, nudging him off Geralt’s chest, wipe up the drool and listen to Jaskier’s fake grumbled protesting in a tired, gruff early morning voice.

It is tempting, he does enjoy hearing the bard grumble on at times. Mindless tired words, lacking any bite, acting as a little opening into Jaskier’s busy mind.

And if it gets too much… he is sure he could find some way to distract the man… a number of ideas coming easily to mind. 

After all if they have paid for a room they might as well take advantage of it as much as they can. Make sure they make use of the nice bed they have for a day or two… he does enjoy these small moments of comfort, a soft mattress, an overly plump pillow, and warm blankets.

Yes, he enjoys soft comforts, although given his lifestyle it is always good to be careful not to let one’s self become too used to it. Become complicate and spoiled.

Although it feels as though it is becoming more and more difficult not to feel spoiled, when even out on a job he can wake up to a soft, warm body wrapped around him, gentle arms holding him close, sweet floral notes cloying at his nose.

He almost feels spoiled just thinking about it.

Jaskier yawns against him, apparently already half-awake as it is. Jaskier shifts, snuggles down closer, nuzzling against him, decidedly drooling on him this time, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

He can survive a little drool, if that is the cost for this.

Sometimes at these times he can’t help but think that perhaps being spoiled wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Jaskier groans, nose crinkling, he yawns again, wide and lazy, eyes opening briefly, offering him a tired glance before determinedly shutting again. He can tell the bard is no longer asleep now, can tell the man has woken up, and simply doesn’t want to accept it. doesn’t want to accept the start of the day, the pressure of the world and the reality around them. 

He snorts at the sight but does not push.

He will let the man rest, if that is what he wants. Let him lay and laze, they have the time to spare. He can poke the man awake later, when the sun is high in the sky, nudge Jaskier from his rest and finally side free of this, ready to go deal with whatever the world chooses to throw at him on this day.

Content with the knowledge that when he returns it will be to a grumbling bard, ready to help stitch clean his wounds, wipe up the blood while berating him for being reckless.

As though he was the reckless one between them, an absurd claim if he ever heard one.

Sometimes he can’t help but wonder how the bard has even survived as long as he has. How a reckless idiot, still seemingly set on diving head on into danger wherever it hides even after everything has happened to him is still alive.

But that, he thinks, as Jaskier grumbles against him, curling into his shoulder, is a question for another time.

For just right now, there are no monsters to try to rip their heads off, stab them, bleed them dry. No drunken idiots looking to start a needless bar fight.

For now, he supposes, they have the time to rest. The time to waste.

If it even is a waste. To be curled up here, comfortable and soft in the warm embrace from a man he loves.

How could that ever truly be a waste?

* * *

**JASKIER POV**

Sometimes the world is wild.

It is dangerous and alive and free. It is the rush of wind through his hair as he runs, mindlessly down a hill, death snapping at his heels, just close enough to make everything worth it.

It is a scream in the dead of night, blood buzzing at the sound, body jumping, ready to respond. The excitement of a hunt, the excitement of a fight, of spilt blood and sweat stinging at your wounds.

It is pain and fear and wonder, all rolled into one. Reminding you that you are alive. That you can exist and breath and fight. Blood moving freely through your veins, pumping, heart beating.

It is the excitement he lives for, the excitement he loves. 

The excitement that tells him he is alive.

But, as the world has proven to him, sometimes the world does not care to simply be wild. Sometimes it is cold. Cold and harsh and all together _cruel._ Cruel and coarse and stifling. All harsh edges, scratching against the skin. Scraping off the flesh. Leaving one raw and bloody and broken. wounds torn open, body exposed to the elements, insides spilling free, breaking barriers never meant to be broken.

Sometimes the world is hot. It is much too hot, skin red and flushed, burning to the touch, so hot, gods so uncomfortably hot. Hot enough to suffocate, heat pressing down, crushing bones beneath its weight. Blood boiling, skin slick with sweat, sweet and wet, dripping into your eyes if you aren’t careful.

Sometimes it is quiet. Much much too quiet. Silence overwhelming, crushing in. leaving you drowning in loneliness, searching for anyway out. Anyway, to breathe or exist or _be_.

And sometimes it is loud. Much too loud. Sound pushing into every crack and crevice. Pushing it open, splitting one’s very being in half, body broken open, left bare.

World punishing you it seems just for existing. For daring to live in the world, daring to be.

Yes, sometimes the world is unkind and cruel and _pained_.

But sometimes it seems, the world can be kind as well. So kind, almost, it can seem, too kind. World soft and warm and gentle.

He feels it sometimes. The kindness in the world, in the brush of warm sun against his skin on a hot summer day, the flittering buzz of a busy bee sliding past, the taste of sweet strawberries, bright on his tongue.

The comfortable weight of an arm slipped around his waist, holding him tight. A low, grumbling rumble of a voice in his ear, lips pressing soft kisses to his neck.

This feeling is… new. This kind way of being alive.

It is not that he has not felt kindness before, he’s shared a soft smile over the edge of his drink, gotten a free meal from a sympathetic barmaid, offering him a gentle pat on the shoulder as she goes.

And it’s not that he hasn’t been in a relationship before. Gods only know he has had affairs, more than he cared to keep count of.

He has felt the buzz of energy in his blood while a lover nibbles on his ear. The excited beat of a heart when waking up to a bare body pressed against his own. He knows that buzz of feeling alive. Has chased it plenty of times, particularly after a drink or two, alcohol alighting his veins.

But this… this is a different kind of feeling alive. This is something new. Something soft and gentle, a different kind of alive.

One that curls around his heart, soft in his chest, warming him from the inside out. Heating his blood, keeping it flowing through his veins.

What a feeling it is. What an odd, unexpected little part of the world he seems to have stumbled into.

He sometimes still can’t quite believe it is real. That it is his and he can keep it, keep these soft moments. keep the touches, the gentle, slow brush down his arm in the early morning light. The firm squeeze of a shoulder, the soft hand cupping his jaw, thumb rubbing his cheek, ever so soft and slow.

Somehow, somehow it is all so real.

This is real, this moment, curled in a soft bed, momentarily safe from the wild of the world, but feeling no fear to return to it, knowing Geralt will be at his side when he does.

He huffs. Feels the hot breath on his hair, the snuffling sound of the Witcher above him, knowing Geralt is already awake. Feels the warmth radiating off the body below him, the strong, firm chest he is nuzzled so comfortably against.

Let’s his lazy eyes stay shut, not bothering to deal with the day ahead just yet.

He simply lets himself lie there for a moment.

Existing.

Warm and soft, curled up against the man he loves.

Feeling ever so comfortably alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand done! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading along, and big big thank you to everyone who's left a comment, i know im terrible at responding but can promise i read each one.


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